Unlimited Blue
by Rhanon Brodie
Summary: Connor goes shopping and finds more than what he was looking for. Companion story to the Murphy / Wren arc, but can be read alone, for those Connor lovers. M for a reason. Connor / OFC
1. Chapter 1

_Unlimited Blue_

_A/N: For Pitbullsrok because she expressed interest. I actually had an amazing start to this and then my hard drive decided to crap out so…I'm starting over, hopefully I can get the same tone and playfulness I originally had…and hopefully the dialogue is the same calibre, I pride myself on dialogue telling my stories!_

_Here's how Connor and my OC Pam meet – Pam was first introduced in 'Caught in the Furze' where readers also met Murphy's little bird, Wren Abernathy. I own nothing save my own characters and plot. It's rated M (obviously!), but the first few chapters garner a 'T' rating, mostly for the gratuitous use of 'feck'. I'll let you know when we get to the juicy parts!_

_*Unlimited Blue is the name of a second hand jeans store on the strip a few blocks from my place._

* * *

Connor MacManus stood at the kitchen table, looking from one ratty pair of jeans to the other. The pair on the left was scuffed through at the knees, not a big deal, but had taken on a mysterious greenish stain at the back of one knee. And it wasn't a green that would make someone say 'oh, that's green paint (how obvious, you're Irish)'. It was more of a green that would make one recoil and wonder how fecal matter was expelled through the back of the leg. Connor balled the first pair of jeans up and tossed them near the door. Those, he decided, would be work jeans.

He turned his attention to the second pair. These ones were actually his favourite; perfectly broken in at the thighs (he was blessed with rather muscular thighs, unlike his string-bean of a twin brother Murphy), perfectly faded at the pockets, a little frayed on the cuffs…but totally worn through at the crotch. He believed the term was 'crotch rot', and he knew that there was no way he'd pick up a proper lass with his junk barely hidden by threadbare denim. He folded that pair of jeans up and set them aside – they were still wearable, maybe down to McGinty's when he was drinking with Murph. With a quick shake of his head, he unfolded them again and shook them out before stepping into them. He needed something to wear to go shopping.

* * *

Murphy MacManus was dragging his feet, lamenting over the skipped last cup of coffee at the diner down from the flat he shared with his brother Connor. The prick had woken him up early (and on a day off, too!) and announced that it was time to go shopping. Murphy had groaned and grumbled and whined, but Connor wouldn't have it. If Murphy didn't know better, he'd bet that Conn was a little light in the loafers, he enjoyed clothes shopping so much. Secretly, however, Murphy was a maybe, just a little, looking forward to the excursion. He was running dangerously low on black t-shirts. And he really wanted to look for a coat. His black sweater from the army surplus store was cozy in the fall, but the weather would turn any day now.

After an artery-clogging breakfast of eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, pancakes (for Conn) and cinnamon buns (for Murph), they paid the bill and left the diner, heading west for the handful of second hand shops that crowded one block. They passed _Second Hand New_ and _Used_ before stopping in front of the latest addition to thrift stores in Southie: _Unltd Blue_. He and Conn had passed it a few times in the past month, marvelling at the array of denim it boasted, and Conn had spoken often of checking out, but had never had the chance. No better day than a Saturday off. Conn pitched his cigarette to the curb and elbowed his brother, motioning for him to follow inside.

* * *

Pamela Leary leaned back on her stool and balanced one heel of her worn cowboy boots on the counter in front of her and pushed back until her head rested on the wall behind her. She'd been at the shop since ten – they didn't open until eleven, but her co-worker (and the owner) Tim had decided that they needed to change displays. That translated into Tim taking over and being his regular control freak self while Pam busied herself with random, non work-related tasks such as painting her nails. Currently, her right hand was sporting a dark purplish blue aptly named 'Bruise', while she balanced the bottle between her knees and attempted to paint her left hand. She could hear Tim wrestling with the mannequin in the window, swearing under his breath as he did so.

Her tongue was between her teeth as she cautiously stroked lacquer down the nail of her pinky finger when Tim cursed and there was a loud thud.

"For Chrissake, Pam, think you could give me a hand?" he whined.

She looked up from her work to see Tim pouting from the window stage, an expectant look on his face. "Sorry," she shrugged, holding up her freshly painted nails. "Need at least half an hour to dry."

Tim cursed again and huffed, dropping the mannequin to the floor. "Bitch," he called out playfully.

"Fag," Pam called back with a laugh.

"Oooh, I'll get you for that," Tim threatened. He picked up the mannequin again and began to wrestle with pulling jeans onto it. "C'mon, fatty, these are a size eight. Shouldn't have had that extra brownie, am I right?"

"You're talking to the mannequin," Pam pointed. Frustrated with her attempt to paint the left hand, she capped the nail polish and stashed it under the counter.

"At least it doesn't talk back," Tim pointed out sharply.

"Uh huh," Pam droned, leaning back against the wall once more.

"Remind me why I hired you?"

"So the straight boys would keep coming in," Pam answered flatly.

Tim paused for a moment to contemplate her answer. "Oh, yeah," he admitted with a grin. "Speaking of which…"

The chime over the door jangled, signalling their first customers of the day.

Pam didn't even look up and instead reached back under the counter and grabbed the latest issue of _Ad Busters_ and began to read.

* * *

Connor grinned at the wall to wall racks of jeans laid out before him. Scanning the store, he saw that they carried other items as well, and Murphy was already stepping around him, heading for the wall shelves where stacks of shirts were folded neatly. Connor took a moment to survey his surroundings, making note of the dark haired fellow standing in the window display gaping at Murphy's backside. Connor chuckled to himself and Murphy's oblivious nature and glanced to the other side of the shop, taking in the display cases of jewellery, belt buckles, and the leggy brunette propped up on a stool.

The leggy brunette…he let his eyes wander a little more closely, taking in the worn dark wash jeans that skimmed her impossibly long legs. Her tank top was red, faded from the wash, and her tawny hair was pulled up in a messy bun, showing off amazing shoulders, a delicate collarbone, and killer cheekbones. She was, in Connor's humble opinion, a goddess.

That thought made him look to Murphy once more. While they had different taste in women, they weren't opposed to flirting with attractive females when given the chance. Murphy was busy with t-shirts, unfolding what appeared to be a painstakingly folded pile, while the male sales assistant kept a close watch, no doubt hoping to jump in and lend a hand in more ways than one. Conn breathed easily. Murph hadn't seen the girl behind the counter and so Connor began rifling his way through the racks, casting a glance in her direction every so often. Whatever she was reading must have been extremely interesting – she hadn't moved a muscle in the last five minutes, save to blink or turn the page.

Connor started picking up a few pairs of jeans to try on. When he had assembled a fair sized pile, he stealthily approached the counter and stood in front of the occupied girl, waiting for her to look up. She merely turned another page in her magazine and continued reading. A bottle of nail polish was clamped between her knees and she absently chewed on her flush bottom lip as she read. Connor shifted in place a bit, hoping the movement would catch her eye, but she just continued reading. He cleared his throat. Nothing.

"Ah, excuse me?" he asked, dropping his pile of jeans on the counter.

The girl looked up suddenly with a gasp, obviously startled out of whatever world she had drifted off to. Her green and gold eyes widened as she stared into his blue ones and then she moved all of her limbs at once, trying to dislodge the nail polish bottle, ditch the magazine, and right herself on the stool.

She failed, epically. With a yelp she slid off her stool and Connor watched, both amazed and amused, as this not so seemingly graceful (but still gorgeous) creature landed with a _thud_ on the service mat behind the counter.

* * *

She squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment as soon as she landed on the floor. Oh, please, oh _please_, she did _not_ just fall off of her stool in front of the best looking guy she'd seen in a very long time. Biting her lip she took a deep breath and dared to take a peek.

Sure as shit, there he was, the guy that had very politely interrupted her. He was tall, well muscled beneath his jeans and sweater combination, and his sandy blond hair was unruly. His eyes, bluer than they should have been, were full of laughter as he leaned over the counter and looked down her looking up at him.

"M'sorry, lass," he chuckled, the smile coming easily to his mouth. "I didna mean to startle ye."

Great, Pam thought, hot _and_ foreign. What was that accent? Scottish? No…no, it was Irish. "It's fine," she said, maybe a little too chipper for someone who had crash landed on her ass seconds earlier. She ambled up with more grace than she had fallen with and wiped her hands off on her thighs before looking down at the pile of jeans he had dumped on the counter top. "Did you want to try these on?"

"Aye," he said smoothly, glancing across the shop to where a dark haired guy was flinging t-shirts left and right. "Ye may want ta help me brother, there, before he tears apart the whole store."

Pam caught movement from the corner of her eye and watched as Tim circled closer to the guy in question, the blond's brother, apparently. "I think Tim's got it handled." She looked back to the blond. "Uh…let's get you a room started, shall we?" She scooped up the pile of jeans and motioned with her head. "Right this way."

Ah, Christ, but she was even better standing up! Connor followed the brunette obediently, watching the way her hips swayed, the heavy belt wrapped there drawing his eyes towards her backside. There was a chain running from the wallet in her worn back pocket to the belt loop on the front, and her tank top stopped about four inches from the low slung waist of her jeans. He saw part of a tattoo on the left side of her body, some sort of vine with leaves that coiled and curled, and when he glanced up, he saw the same type of ink just licking out from under the shoulder of her tank top. _Hail Mary, full of grace_, she was inked up good and Connor suddenly wanted to see just how far that tattoo went and if she had any others.

"Here we go," she announced, drawing back a heavy red velvet curtain to reveal a fair sized change room. She deposited the jeans on the bench inside and turned to Connor. "Was there something I could help you find? Or did you want to start with these for now?"

He heard her voice, but his eyes had been drawn first to the vintage rodeo belt buckle and then up to the silver ring in her belly button. He added wanting to see all of her piercings to finding out just how far her tattoo stretched. "Ah…no, I'll start with these, thank ye," he said in a rather husky tone before flicking his gaze to hers.

_Her_ gaze, however, was busy wandering over him, his shoulders, torso and hips, and they lingered on his thighs and his crotch maybe a little too long – he felt the blood stirring there already and as she stepped out of the change room he ducked in, his hand brushing the bare skin of her waist. That made another tiny gasp escape her lips and she looked up, blushing, into his eyes.

"My name's Pam," she droned softly, almost in a trance. "Call me if want me."

Connor's eyebrow went up at her instructions and he grinned wickedly.

Pam's eyes widened and Connor could see her mentally smack herself. "Call me if you want another size. Cuz I can get that for you. Um…" she pointed back to the counter where she had been seated. "I'll just be…yeah…" and then she sauntered off, muttering to herself under her breath.

* * *

"Get it together, Pam," she mumbled to herself as she turned on her heel and left the Irish hunk at the change rooms. Part of her hoped that he was like most guys and was in and out in under five minutes, and part of her hoped that he either: a) took his time and modelled each pair for her, or b) took his time and modelled each pair for her _and_ asked her if they fit okay in the waist while lifting the hem of his shirt to show off more of that golden skin.

Shit, she was hard up. Sighing, she looked across the store to see how Tim was doing. She almost laughed out loud – the two dark haired men were victims of their own oblivion. Tim was using all of his best flirting material and not taking the hint that the other guy was barely batting an eyelash at the fact that he was being openly hit on by another man.

The phone rang shrilly, pulling her out of her musing. "Unlimited Blue, you've got Pam," she answered coolly, wandering out to where the Irish guy's brother had destroyed her t-shirt display. She cradled the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she began re-folding shirts and stacking them according to size.

The person on the other end asked for Tim – not Mr. Richells or Timothy Richells – so that meant that the call was probably of a personal nature. "Hold on," she answered, pressing the mic end to her shoulder.

"Hey, Tim!" she shouted.

Tim jumped and spun, blushing as he had been openly staring at Irish guy's brother's amazing shoulders. "What?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

Pam held out the phone. "They asked for 'Tim'."

Tim mumbled something and stalked towards her, snatching the phone. Pam continued folding t-shirts, watching the darker of the two brothers begin to rifle through the rack of coats. He'd pull one off the hanger, inspect it, then sling it over the rack, something that drove Pam nuts. She often wondered what customers did at home with their own closets. Finishing with the t-shirts, she made her way to the jackets.

"Can I help you find something?"

The dark haired guy shrugged. "Nah, lass, m'fine. Waitin' for me brother." He looked up and smiled at her.

Pam smiled back. "I can see that. But you managed to destroy my pile of t-shirts in under five minutes and now you've turned your attack to the jackets. You're obviously looking for something in particular else you wouldn't be casting things aside so readily."

The dark brother fixed her with a curious gaze as he pulled another jacket off its hanger. "Aye," he answered slowly. "I am in the market for a new coat."

Pam gave him a once over. He was dressed almost identical to his brother – worn jeans, black sweater, scuffed boots… "I think I may have something for you. It's not out yet because we haven't done our seasonal changeover. It arrived in the spring. Hold on." She moved to the back of the store and ducked into storage. She knew exactly what she was looking for.


	2. Chapter 2

"Here we are," she said as she wandered back onto the sales floor, her arms laden with heavy felt wool the color of night. She set one jacket aside and, beckoning him to the mirror, unbuttoned the second coat and held it open for him to slip on. He shoved his hands into the sleeves and she lifted it onto his very impressive shoulders before smoothing it out and walking around in front of him to get a good look. She was right, the pea coat fit him perfectly, and it looked great on him.

The dark-haired man turned one way and then the other, inspecting the fit and cut, the length of the sleeves, and the buttons as he fastened them. The tag on the sleeve caught his eye and he glanced at it, frowning a little. "Aye, t'is great, I'll give ye that. But it might be a little out of my price range."

She shrugged, knowing that price was negotiable. "Let's see if your brother likes it," she answered instead, gathering up the second jacket. She turned towards the change rooms and frowned as she watched Tim march right towards them. "Ummm," she started slowly, readying to head Tim off at the pass.

"Wait," the dark Irishman chuckled. "E's yer boss, aye?"

Pam nodded, giving him a quizzical look.

"An' obviously likes boys," the Irishman continued. "Me brother dragged me here forcibly. I feckin' hate shopin', though yer a right distraction." And here, he grinned, making Pam blush. "I jus' want te feck with him fer a moment, right? Let yer boss…er, whas' his name?"

"Tim," Pam supplied.

"Aye, let's let Tim help me brother out with finding the right fit."

"You think that's a wise plan?" Pam asked, taking the coat that the dark-haired man had shrugged out of. She put the pair of them on the counter.

"No," he replied, "but it will make me laugh."

* * *

"So, how _are_ we doing in here?" A rather chipper, slightly effeminate male voice called from the other side of the curtain.

Connor froze, the second pair of jeans half up his thighs. What happened to Pam? He scurried with the jeans, yanking them over his hips, before poking his head out from behind the curtain. He first spotted the male sales associate that had been scoping out Murphy not five minutes ago. That meant…he craned his head left and then right before he spotted Murphy's dark head angled towards that of Pam, and he was speaking very lowly while a pink blush lighted on her cheeks. Connor growled and snapped his blue eyes back to the salesman.

"M'fine, thank ye." He went to duck back into the change room and find his own clothes so that he could step out into the store and steer Murphy away from Pam.

No such luck. The salesman grabbed his hand and hauled him out of the change room, spinning him to stand before a mirror. "Let's take a look, shall we?" He frowned at Connor's backside and shook his head. "Way too loose back here," the salesman explained, tugging at the belt loop sharply. Connor gave a not-so-manly yelp and was unceremoniously shoved back into the change room. "What else have you got?"

"Eh…really, m'fine, if ye could just send Pam over here, she was originally helpin' me…"

"I think she's busy with another customer," the salesman replied sharply. "And besides, I would know how jeans are supposed to fit a man. Don't be a pussy."

Connor gaped at his reflection, bristling at the dig to his manliness. Connor MacManus was _no_ pussy. He scowled at himself and bared his teeth, tearing off the offending denim – he'd _never_ had _anyone_ frown at his backside before – and pulling a second pair on. They seemed very clingy in the thigh. He tore the curtain back and marched out to the mirror, challenging both the salesman and shooting daggers into Murphy's back as he continued to chat Pam up.

"Ooh, these are nice," the salesman pointed out. "Fit you well in the legs…" he continued. Connor felt the sly fingers slip into the waistband at his hip and give a tug. "What do you think?"

Connor forced a smile but shook his head. "Not quite." He glanced back to Murphy who had let Pam go from whatever conversation they were having and was now watching Connor's interaction with the salesman with rapt attention. He detected mischief in his twin's eyes and quickly flipped Murphy the bird before stomping back into the change room.

Pam watched the dark-haired man laugh at his brother's obvious discomfort with Tim. The lighter-haired man was polite, but squirmy, not exactly sure how to get Tim to keep his hands to himself, something that the darker brother found to be extremely funny. She felt kind of bad, for both the customer and for Tim, but it was short lived as the phone rang shrilly again. She answered it; it was, of course, for Tim. She crossed the store, holding out the phone.

"_Again_?" Tim exclaimed, clearly perturbed that his ogling was interrupted.

Pam shrugged. "I didn't tell them to call you here while you clearly have very important things to do," she pointed out with some sass.

"Oh, you are such a bitch," Tim hissed, snatching the phone from her hands.

"Get over it, homo," Pam replied, watching as her boss barked into the phone and wandered out of ear shot.

"Chrissake, is he gone?" A voice muttered from behind the curtain to her right.

Pam glanced and saw the blond man poke his head out, fear evident in his eyes.

"Oh…um, yeah, sorry about…that!" He shot a hand out and wrapped it around her wrist before yanking her into the change room.

She was pressed against one mirrored wall, his right hand beside her head while he surveyed the rest of the store. Then he looked back to her while snapping the curtain shut.

"Is he always that…hands on?"

Pam couldn't help but giggle at the exasperation in his voice and the worried look in his blue eyes. "I wouldn't worry," she soothed. "Tim knows a straight guy when he sees one. He just can't resist hitting on a hot guy."

The lighter Irishman suddenly grinned wolfishly and relaxed his stance, while his blue eyes flickered down her body and back up to her mouth for a moment. "So, I'm hot?" he purred lowly.

Pam felt her cheeks burn. "Is the Pope Catholic?" she mumbled.

This caused the man to laugh out loud and he moved away from her, running a hand up through his messy hair. "Look, I know this is probably going to sound like a line but…please don't make me go back out there. Can ye stay and give me yer honest opinion?" he asked, gesturing to the pile of jeans he had yet to try on. He was already thumbing open the button on the pair he wore.

"You're right, that does sound like a line," Pam started before she realized what he was doing. "Oh! You're…you're actually going to do this. Um…okay," she shifted, uncomfortable with his level of attractiveness, and turned her back to him. To her dismay, she came face to face with not only her reflection, but his as well. Damn Tim for insisting upon mirrors on all walls of the change room.

He smiled at her in the mirror before sliding the jeans down his legs. "Fer a lass who works in a clothing store, ye seem strangely uncomfortable with people getting changed in front of you." He pulled his sweater up over his head and tossed it aside.

She heard his teasing tone and rolled her eyes at him before she let her gaze wander over his half naked reflection. She was right, he was tanned everywhere. A simple wooden bead necklace hung around his neck, resting against the firm pectorals of his chest. He wore his white boxers low on his hips and as her eyes lingered there, she heard him clear his throat.

Her eyes snapped back up to meet his in the mirror. "I'm usually on the other side of the curtain," she said in a husky voice she didn't recognize.

"Ah," he shrugged. He pulled on another pair of jeans.

"You seem strangely comfortable getting undressed in front of complete strangers," Pam shot back after a moment. She busied herself inspecting the nail polish she'd applied to one hand.

"T'is nothin' but what God gave me, aye? Sides, figured with a gorgeous lass like you, how bad could getting naked be?"

She gasped, looking back at him to see his grin.

"M'finished," he said a second later. "Tell me what ye think."

Pam closed her eyes, centering herself, and drew a deep breath. Then she turned and opened her eyes. She tried her hardest to keep to his face but that tanned skin was beckoning her and her eyes wandered back down over his torso to where the faded denim hung low on his hips, low enough that she was following the trail of dark blonde hair from his navel all the way down…

"Well?" he breathed with a laugh. "What do ye think?"

Pam blinked and bit her lip. "I think it's strange that you took your shirt off to try on pants."

He plastered a crooked grin on his face and took a step closer. Reaching out, he took her right hand in his and held it up between them. "I think it's strange ye only painted one hand."

Pam swallowed thickly at his touch. He was warm and she felt her guts start to tremble as she gazed back into his eyes. "Well, I think it's strange that you haven't introduced yourself and yet you're practically naked here." Her voice had dropped an octave and was soft.

He smirked. "An' I think it's strange that you agreed to come into a change room with a complete stranger."

He dropped his pitch to match hers. Pam licked her lips and breathed deeply as the fair haired man stepped a fraction of an inch closer. "I…" Pam started, her voice dying on her lips as she focused on his mouth. His hand still held hers, his fingers stroking up and down her digits. "I think…"

"Oi! Conn! Ye finished holdin' hands with the lass yet? 'Ow much longer are ye goin' ta be?"

The blond man – 'Conn', according to his brother – shook his head and looked to the curtain. "Feckin' hold yer water, Murph. This is important, aye?" He looked back to Pam. "Got to be sure the fit is right."

"I should go," Pam stammered, pulling her hand from his and reaching for the curtain.

"Have dinner with me," he rushed, placing his hand on the edge of the curtain and holding it closed.

She cursed inwardly. Tonight of all nights, a ridiculously sexy Irishman was asking her out to dinner, and she had to work her second job. "I…I can't," she said, wincing with regret. "I'm working."

Said sexy Irishman paused for a moment, searching their surroundings. "Y'mean here? Yer open on a Saturday night?" He sounded doubtful.

"No," Pam said with a chuckle as the hurt dissolved from his features. "At my other job."

He frowned. "Yer really makin' me work for it, aren't ye, lass?"

She shook her head, confused. "Work for what?"

He sighed theatrically and ran a hand through his hair. "What's yer other job?"

She was silent, wondering why he wanted to know.

"Look, if it's nuttin' illegal, ye can tell me, right? I mean, yer not a prostitute." He stopped short and gave her the once over. "Are ye?" he asked cautiously.

She couldn't help but laugh loudly. "Christ, no, I'm not."

"Lord's name," he muttered.

She narrowed her eyes curiously. "I'm an apprentice."

"Like Donald Trump 'Apprentice'?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, not like Donald Trump. At a tattoo shop. _Aces High_."

"Get the feck out!" the Irishman exclaimed excitedly as he unfastened the jeans he had been modeling.

Pam shrugged. "Almost a year, now. Getting ready for my 'test', as it is. Hopefully, I'll get my own chair by Christmas."

He pulled on his own clothes and picked up the last pair of jeans he had tried on. "I'm takin' these. What about tomorrow, then?"

Pam shook her head. "What _about_ tomorrow?"

He continued. "Well, me brother and I got Mass, aye? But after that, I'm free. Can I take ye fer lunch?"

As soon as he mentioned Mass, she remembered her promise to her grandmother. "Shit," she winced again. "I told my grandmother I'd go to church with her tomorrow. Then tea, probably." She gave him a sheepish grin. "It's been a while since I visited her. My ma has been nagging me to go with her for a while."

He gave her a half smile and nodded. "All right. I know what it's like when family is involved." He gestured to the curtain. "Case in point, me baby brother. Ye can't blame me fer tryin'." He pulled the curtain open and stepped back into the store. "Thanks," he said, holding up the jeans. "It was nice meetin' ye, Pam," he added, albeit a little sadly. He turned and walked to the counter where his brother was waiting.

"Fuck," Pam muttered, sinking into the pile of discarded denim with a sigh. She hadn't even learned his name – well, beyond 'Conn'. And now he was leaving. She couldn't run out there though, could she? That would seem too desperate. Instead, she busied herself collecting the discarded clothing 'Conn' had tried on, anything to distract the nagging inner voice that told her she was an idiot for turning him down so quickly. He had counter offered; why hadn't she done the same?

The chimes over the door signalled their exit and a minute later, Tim was standing in the door of the change room, looking at her expectantly. "Well, what happened?"

Pam scowled and scooped up the clothes before shoving past Tim. "What do you mean, what happened? He tried on jeans. Found a pair he liked. Bought, paid for, and then left," she snapped, tossing the jeans on the counter.

Tim stared after her. "I mean you managed to get not one of them, but both of them alone at some point. You're telling me you didn't get a name? A number? A _date_? Jesus Christ, Pam, I practically gave them to you on a platter and you're telling me that _nothing_ happened?" He was whining now.

"The dark one was 'Murph', which, I'm guessing, is short for Murphy. The lighter one was 'Conn.' I don't know what that's short for." Pam paused in hanging a pair of jeans back on the hanger. "Why didn't _you_ ask?"

Tim narrowed his dark eyes and leaned on the glass counter, finger in Pam's face. "I rely on you to get the goods on the straight boys," he hissed.

Pam tossed aside the jeans she had been handling. "I'm off my game as of late," she muttered, clambering back up onto her stool. She stared at the toes of her boots.

"You're not still hung up on Pete, are you?" Tim accused.

"No," Pam snarled. "Just…maybe a little shell shocked, that's all. Ugh, can we talk about something else?"

Tim nodded with a sympathetic smile. "You're right. I'm sorry. I should pry and I shouldn't push." He grabbed a pair of jeans and began hanging. They worked in silence for a few moments before Tim couldn't contain it any longer. "What did the blond one look like without his pants on?"


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Valerie E Mackin, as if I would leave you with just two chapters! This one is at least six, if not longer, though I may break it into another story at some point. The Connor muse came to visit last night and insisted that I stop paying so much attention to Murph._

* * *

"Thank you for coming with me today, Pamela," Katherine O'Reilly beamed.

Pam escorted her grandmother from the car to the front of St. Michael's Cathedral and smiled. "Of course, grandma. I know it's been a while since I've been to see you…"

"Oh, heavens, I know you have a busy life, girl," the old woman interrupted. "I'm not worried about you neglecting _me_." She looked pointedly at the church before them, and the patrons filing in.

Pam smiled tightly and adjusted her flowing white skirt. Of course, her grandmother was more concerned with her eternal soul than making social calls. Pam held her tongue, however, and the two women climbed the steps and entered the grand cathedral.

They took a seat near the back, because there wasn't much else, and settled in. Mrs. O'Reilly said hello to those she knew and introduced her granddaughter to the delight of many. By the time Mass started, Pam was exhausted, having to explain where she'd been for so long without saying she was working long hours in a tattoo parlour in Boston proper. A few last minute worshippers slipped in during the opening hymn, but Mrs. O'Reilly delivered a swift elbow to Pam for wandering eyes.

She turned back to her hymn book, sure that she wasn't even on the right page, and caught movement in the pew in front of her as two stragglers settled in. She could hear them muttering to one another, but it wasn't English. She guessed, however, that they were having a small argument with the way their words were clipped. Her grandmother suddenly leaned forward and delivered a sharp flick to an ear of each person.

"Yer late! The lord doesn't care whose fault it is!" The old woman hissed.

Pam choked on her breath and glared at her grandmother. Mrs. O'Reilly merely shrugged and sat back in her seat. "The MacManus brothers know better," she stated simply, looking back to the pew ahead.

Pam froze. She knew. She just _knew_. And as she slowly turned her head to the people her grandmother had just assaulted, she was greeted by two grinning faces – one with a shock of dark hair and the other with an unruly mop of sandy brown – and equally grinning, bluer than blue eyes.

"Oh, for Chrissake," she mumbled, recognizing the brothers from the day before.

"Lord's name!" the boys, and her grandmother, hissed in unison.

"Pay attention," Mrs. Leary warned the boys, nodding to the front of the church.

"Aye, Mrs. O'Reilly," they sang sweetly. The dark haired boy turned first, smirking, but the lighter one, Conn (what _was_ that short for?), stared for a spell.

"Yer granddaughter is very lovely, Mrs. O'Reilly," he whispered, his eyes never leaving Pam's.

"Aye, she is, Connor. Now turn around and be respectful. We can talk after."

As the service began, Pam shifted slightly in her seat so that she could better see Connor's profile. Connor MacManus – could there be a more Irish name? Really, she should have known with his accent and his mention of Mass only yesterday, that the odds of him and his brother showing up at St. Michael's were favourable. It was, after all, one of the larger Irish Catholic churches in Boston. And the Irish tended to travel in small circles that could fill a pub in less than ten seconds, but she couldn't believe that her grandmother knew them both – well enough to deliver abrupt discipline.

Connor seemed rapt with attention, his face solemn as he absorbed the words of the Monsignor. In fact, Murphy seemed just as attentive. Pam hoped that no one asked her what the day's service was about; she wasn't sure she'd be able to tell anyone. Her gaze flickered back and forth from the dark brother to the light, taking in the mirror image tattoos of the Virgin Mary on their necks. When Murphy reached back to scratch his ear, she caught a glimpse of a word scrawled along his forefinger. Whatever it was, it wasn't English. Then Connor ran a hand through his hair and she saw similar characters on his forefinger. His she could read: _vertias_. She craned her neck to one side, inspecting the work and wondering where he'd had it done.

Her grandmother jabbed her with an elbow again and Pam sucked in a startled breath and sat straight. She thought she saw Connor smile, but all too soon the service was over and the worshippers were standing, saying thanks to their neighbours and fishing out spare bills and change for the collection plate.

Outside, the autumn air was warm, having burned through the morning's chill, and Pam's cheeks were aching with the polite smiles she was giving to her grandmother's friends. She watched from the corner of her eye as Connor and Murphy stood a spell with the Monsignor. Then they were making their way across the courtyard towards her and her grandmother.

"Mrs. O'Reilly, t'is lovely to see you again t'day," Murphy said, bending to kiss her grandmother on the cheek.

"Ah, Murphy, yer a good lad. And Connor, you keepin' him out of trouble?"

Connor snorted and kissed her other cheek. "As best I can, ma'am. Won't you introduce me to your granddaughter?" He smiled up at Pam.

Pam merely shook her head and gave a small chuckle. Connor MacManus was not easily shaken, she decided.

"Of course, of course!" Mrs. Leary was exclaiming. "Boys, this is me granddaughter, Pamela Leary – me eldest daughter's daughter. Pamela, this is Murphy and Connor MacManus."

Pam shook hands with both of them, narrowing her gaze with a smirk. "So nice to meet you," she muttered.

"Aye, t'is," Murphy answered.

"Ah, me and Murph, here, we was just headin' for some lunch. Would you ladies like ta join us?" Connor asked, smiling broadly at Pam.

"Ah, such charmers!" Mrs. O'Reilly replied. "But we've a bit of shoppin' to do t'day, and a tea time at the International." The older woman watched as Connor's face fell a fraction, even though he tried to hide it. Mrs. O'Reilly winked at him. "But Pamela is sure to be free some point this week."

"Grandma!" Pam protested, mentally smacking herself. "I don't know what my schedule looks like for the rest of the week!"

Mrs. O'reilly snorted and looked back to the boys. "She's working on gettin' a spot at a tattoo shop – can ye believe it? Me own granddaughter." She sighed dramatically for effect.

"We all 'ave a callin', Mrs. O'Reilly," Connor interjected, shooting a smile in Pam's direction. "An' if this is yer graddaughter's, who are we to judge?"

Mrs.O'Reilly stared at Connor a moment before laughter bubbled out of her. "Aye, if the Good Lord thought it best for me Pamela to permanently draw on Boston's underbelly, I shouldn't complain?" She snorted and shoved Connor playfully. "Such a charmer," she groused. "I should call yer ma, the two of ya."

"Ah, Christ, _no_," Murphy groaned.

"Lord's name," Mrs. O'Reilly piped back. "Pamela? Are ye ready?"

"Aye," Pam let slip. She felt her cheeks turn pink with the slip – she had worked hard to lose most of the Irish-isms from her speech, but they usually cropped up when she spent too much time with her grandmother. She found herself looking at Connor who in turn was looking back at her, a playful smile on his face. Pam sighed. "C'mon, grandma. There's a sale at Macy's." She hooked her arm into the crook of her grandmother's elbow and began to steer her towards the stairs.

"She'd be in good hands, Connor, were you take her out," Mrs. O'Reilly called over her shoulder as her granddaughter hauled her away. She chuckled at Pamela's antics. "Don't take 'no' for an answer!"

* * *

To say that Connor had been pleasantly surprised that the shop girl from _ULtd Blue_ showed up at his church the next morning was a fair assessment. Said surprise, however, turned to absolute delight when she arrived with Mrs. O'Reilly, a sweet Irish lady of about eighty who was from the old country. He elbowed Murphy as they stood outside, away from the doors, finishing their cigarettes.

"Look there, Murph. See that lass? Look familiar?"

Murphy squinted behind his dark sunglasses and then groaned at his brother's good fortune. "Ye can't be serious," he droned, peering over the rims just to be sure.

And yes, it was Pam, dressed in a soft white skirt and a sleeveless white sweater, with soft brown suede boots on her feet. She did look different than yesterday, both brothers decided: delicate. More feminine.

"Is that Mrs. O'Reilly she's with?" Murphy said in disbelief. Honestly, his brother's luck was just sickening.

"Aye, that it is. Guess this is the granddaughter she's always goin' on about. You finished? I want to get a seat as close as possible."

She didn't notice him right away, but Mrs. O'Reilly did, much to their despair. After rubbing the stinging spot on his ear where the old woman had flicked him, he turned, smiling, and looked directly at Pam. The look on her face was priceless – she was in much disbelief as Murphy was. But Connor took it and used it, flirting with her while all the while playing innocent with her grandmother. After the service, he was a mite disappointed to learn that she truly did have plans with her grandmother, but Mrs. O'Reilly seemed hell bent on getting her granddaughter out on a date – and with a proper Irish lad at that. She'd practically given her blessing there in front of the church, which was a good sign to Connor. He relaxed a bit, planning his next move. Now, he had an in.

* * *

The next day, he went to _ULtd Blue_ first, dreading that he may have to talk to Tim, but sucking it up because there was a chance Pam was working. No such luck, though. Tim was extremely helpful, however, but maybe trying a bit too hard to get Connor into that change room again. He eventually learned that Pam was off today, at least at this job, and that if she wasn't at the tattoo shop, she was probably at _Hot Wax_, looking at the latest music releases.

"Let's check the tattoo parlour," Connor announced as he stepped out of the clothing store and glanced at Murphy.

Murphy shook his head, pushing away from the brick wall he was leaning against. "No can do, Connor – you're late for work as it is." He motioned to the digital clock read out on the marquee sign of the smoke shop across the way.

"Feck," Connor muttered. "Think she'll still be there when I'm off?"

Murphy shrugged, not really caring either way. Until he saw the look on Connor's face. "Aw, c'mon, Conn," Murphy groaned.

"Murhp, I don' ask much of ye," Connor cajoled.

Murphy shook his head abruptly. "No. M'not doin' it."

"Murph, I'm yer _brother_. Help me out."

"I'm not goin' into some tattoo shop lookin' for a girl who _might_ be there. It's _my_ day off, Conn. Just go in t'morrow."

"Murph, don't be such a fecking pussy. I'd do it fer you."

"You'd just as soon feck a girl I was interested in, let alone track her down fer me."

Connor feigned mock outrage. "I would never!"

Murphy fixed his brother with a hard stare and was silent.

"What?" Connor asked innocently.

The darker twin raised an expectant eyebrow. "Shannon Malone."

A blank look of confusion crossed Connor's face. "Eh?"

Murphy scowled. "Really, Conn. Ye tellin' me ye don' remember _my_ date for graduation?"

Connor suddenly brightened. "Oh, _that_ Shannon Malone!" He laughed, good natured. "C'mon, Murph, that was almost ten years ago. Don' tell me yer _still_ hung up on that?"

"Ye fecked my feckin' date during the principal's speech! In the sports supply room of the gymnasium! I can' believe I still call ye me brother!" Murphy lashed out but by the end of his tirade, there was a smile in his voice. He could never _truly_ be mad at Connor. He didn't have it in him.

Connor grinned and then grew serious. "It's no big deal, Murph. Just head over there, see if she's workin'. It's not that hard."

Murphy rolled his eyes. "_Fine_," he muttered. "I'll do it. But you owe me. An' I don't mean I'll let ye feck the next girl I'm into, got it?"

Connor was already across the street, heading to the packing plant. "Right, right, no feckin'! Thanks, Murph! Come by later and let me know, either way, aye?"

Murphy scowled and flipped up his middle finger, and then turned, heading down towards Water Street.


	4. Chapter 4

"Is Pam Leary workin' t'day?"

The girl sitting behind the front desk of _Aces High_ barely acknowledged Murphy with a glance. "She is."

"Is she done before six?"

The girl shook her head. "Sorry, I can't give out that information." She paused and eyed Murphy up and down. "Are you a friend?"

"Something like that," Murphy replied, starting to get impatient. Connor was going to owe him _big_ for this.

"Do you have an appointment?"

Murphy blinked at the girl with. "Eh? No, I don' want a tattoo, lass, I want to talk to Pam."

The flame-haired girl shrugged. "I want a million dollars. See, we all have to deal with disappointment. But here's where you're in luck: I probably won't ever see a million dollars, but if you make an appointment, you can certainly talk to Pam."

Murphy chewed at the corner of his thumb, weighing his options. He _had_ been thinking of getting another tattoo as of late. His blue eyes flicked to the panels of flash art lining the walls. " 'Ow soon can I see her?"

"Hold on a second." The redhead stood and wandered through a beaded curtain to the area of the shop where loud rock music was drowning out the buzz of tattoo needles. She returned a few moments later. "Ten minutes?"

Murphy nodded and took a seat. The redhead shuffled around on her desk for a moment and then approached him with a form attached to a clipboard and a pen. "You realise that Pam isn't certified yet, right? I mean, she's great, but she won't have her test until next month."

Murphy nodded, absently filling in blanks on the consent form. "Yeah, I know. It's no problem," he mumbled. He finished with the form and handed back to the receptionist.

About five minutes later, he heard voices emerging from the back and looked up in time to see Pam following a customer through the beaded curtain, up to the front desk. She was giving her care instructions while directing the receptionist how much to charge.

"Thanks again for coming to see me," Pam said genuinely. She shook hands with her customer and turned back to the girl behind the desk. "So, where's this walk-in?"

The red-haired girl pointed over Pam's shoulder and smiled. Murphy took that as his cue and stood up, grinning.

* * *

Pam turned and faltered slightly. "You're fucking kidding," she muttered, casting a withering look back to the receptionist. _Game face, Pam_, she reminded herself. Turning back to Murphy, she managed a wry smile. "What are you doing here?"

Murphy paused, looking rather sheepish, and scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. "Gettin' a new tattoo?"

He sounded uncertain, and Pam was sure of the reason why – but if he was saying a new tattoo, then a new tattoo she would give him. "All right. Follow me." She motioned towards the beaded curtain and headed back to the chair she had been occupying. "Have a seat." She gestured to the chair and looked at the darker brother for a moment. "I'm an apprentice, you know," she started, leaning back against a counter and crossing her arms. "So I have to be supervised. What are we doing today?"

Murphy sighed and sank into the chair. "Look, I'm doin' a favour for Conn, aye? He just wants to know how long…"

"Pam, you got another one? You're hot today, girl!" Cynthia, one of the senior artists, pushed into the room. She eyed Murphy for a moment. "Who's the babe?" she purred, pulling up a stool and rolling it towards the dark-haired man. "I'm Cynthia. I'll be supervising today. Pam told you she was an apprentice?"

"Aye, she did, but…"

Cynthia was already talking again, eyeballing Murphy. "But nothing, sweetheart. Irish, huh?" She glanced down at his forearm, where it sported an impressive looking Celtic cross. "Who's done your work?"

Murphy rubbed a hand over the large piece. "Fox. Back in Dublin, at _Fightin Irish_."

Cynthia nodded and looked to Pam. "What are we doing today?"

Pam shrugged, and turned to Murphy with narrowed eyes. "I don't know. Murphy, what am I doing today?"

He hesitated, looking from Pam, to Cynthia, and back to Pam.

"He looks like the devil's in him, I'll tell you that much," Cynthia said, pulling a book from a low shelf and flipping through pages. She found what she was looking for and turned the book towards Murphy, tapping a small graphic. "How about this? To contradict the iconography," she explained, gesturing to the cross and the Virgin Mary on his neck.

Pam watched Murphy as Cynthia went through a few pictures with him. His gaze was rather expectant and he seemed impatient. "Hey, Cynthia, there might be something in that _Encyclopaedia of the Occult_, out front."

Cynthia paused and shot Pam a pensive stare. "All right," she answered slowly, looking back to Murphy. "Be right back."

As soon as Cynthia left, Pam pounced. "That's some brotherly bond if you're willing to get a tattoo," she started, turning to her autoclave and pulling out a newly sterilized needle.

"Conn wants ta know if yer done before six," he croaked.

She pulled a sheet of stencil paper out and laid it on her work table next to her transfer pen. "And why can't Conn ask me himself?" she hummed.

" E's workin', lass. It's me day off. M'doin' him a favour."

Pam paused and sat back against the counter. "I have brothers. They aren't nearly as close as you two are."

Murphy shrugged. "Are yer brothers twins?"

"What?" Pam shook her head. "No, they're eighteen and twenty-two."

He nodded. "Conn and I are twins," he summed up. "Been together forever."

Cynthia chose that moment to reappear, hauling a rather hefty book with her. "Didn't see the _Encyclopaedia_, but we have this," and she held up the book, entitled _Demons, Devils, and Darkness_. She set it on the workbench and flipped through a few pages.

Suddenly, Murphy spoke up. "That one," he said, pointing to a picture of a small winged demon.

"All right," Cynthia crowed with a nod. "Now we're getting somewhere!" She handed the book to Pam who picked up the stencil paper and taped it over the chosen image, tracing as Cynthia continued talking to Murphy. "Where are we putting it?"

Murphy was silent as he thought. "Somewhere inconspicuous," he shrugged. His face lit up and he tugged his sweater over his head before rolling up the sleeve of his T shirt. "Here," he decided, pointing to the bottom curve of his right bicep.

Cynthia licked her lips and nodded. "Might need to take the shirt off, too."

* * *

"You seem to be doing fine. I need to go let Rebecca have a break. Call me if you need anything." Cynthia stood from the stool where she was observing and cast a lingering gaze at Murphy, who currently sat shirtless in the chair, his left arm folded behind his head while Pam crowded his naked torso. "Why do you always get the hot ones?" She muttered at Pam as she neared the door.

"Cuz I'm not sporting a two-carat engagement ring," Pam replied as she paused her work to look up at Murphy. "You okay?" she asked the Irishman.

Murphy nodded, though he seemed a little pale. "M'fine."

Pam frowned and brought the needle back towards Murphy's bicep. "It's okay, you know. That it hurts? It's a sensitive area."

"S'not that," Murphy mumbled. "Conn and I…we've always gotten ink together."

"Well," Pam breathed as she sat back and flexed her hand a few times, "he can always make an appointment."

Murphy barked with laughter and leaned back into the chair. "Christ, lass, you're givin' him a run for his money, aye?"

"Lord's name," Pam muttered fondly as she pressed the needle into Murphy's pale skin again.

"Is there a reason why yer bein' so difficult? I mean, m'not sayin' Conn is a cassanova or nuttin', but me brother has never had so much trouble tryin' to get a date with a beautiful girl."

"So, he's never had a challenge? Is that what you're saying?" Pam smiled and wiped at the excess ink pooling around the design. She picked up more ink from the pot to her left and bent to her work again.

"No," Murphy purred.

Pam looked up into thoughtful blue eyes.

"M'sayin' that someone burned ye bad, lass. That's the only reason I can think of why you won't go out with Conn. Either that, or ye like girls." Murphy paused and got a contemplative look on his face as he looked Pam up and down. "Which is fine, too." He winked.

Pam rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to jam the needle into his ribs. "I don't like girls, Murphy. At least, not like that."

"So who was he?"

Fed up, Pam set the needle down with a clang and blew her bangs out of her eyes before fixing Murphy with a hard gaze. "Why do you care?"

Murphy's own expression grew serious. "So I can tell me brother how _not_ to feck up wit' ye."

* * *

Connor blew smoke out the corner of his mouth and ducked into the lunch room. He was on his break, _finally_, and as if his twin knew it, Murphy had called the plant. Connor picked up the phone, stubbing out his cigarette. "Feckin' hell, Murph, it's been three hours. Ye better not have been feckin' her."

Murphy chuckled on the other end. "I considered it."

"Did ye talk to her?"

"I did," Murphy answered shortly.

"And?" Connor prompted, heaving a sigh at his brother's stubbornness.

"An' if ye want to talk to her, she's workin' till nine. But you need to make an appointment."

"Yer feckin' kiddin'," Connor mumbled, fishing another cigarette out of his coat pocket. "She's not makin' it easy, is she?"

"An' fer good reason," Murphy said lowly. "Are ye on lunch, then?"

"Aye," Connor said, blowing another stream of smoke through his nose. "An what do you mean, 'fer good reason'? You didn't tell her anyting'… incrimitantin', did ye, Murph?"

"I'm comin' down. I'll bring ye sometin' from Dooley's. We need ta talk."

_That_ didn't sound promising. She probably had a boyfriend. Or a _girl_friend. Or maybe a husband. Connor sighed and rubbed his temples between a thumb and forefinger before leaning his forehead against the wall. "Jus' tell me now, Murph. Spare me the theatrics. She's got a fella, doesn't she?"

"No. But she _did_. Look, I'll be there in ten, aye? What d'ya want from Dooley's?"

He couldn't think of food at a time like this! "I don't feckin' care, Murph!" he growled. "I _want_ ta know what Pam said!"

"Yer getting' corn'd beef, then," Murphy answered.

"Shit! No, don't get me feckin' corn'd beef, ye arse! I don' want ta smell like smoked meat if I see er' t'night!"

"I'm still at the shop – should I make an appointment fer ye, then?"

Connor groaned. He'd _never_ been through this much trouble for a woman! _She's not just any woman_, his inner bastard suddenly chimed in. _She's worth it_. "Aye," Connor barked. "Make the feckin' appointment. An' get me ham on rye. With lot's o'…"

"Mustard, I know," Murphy laughed. "I'll see you in a few."

* * *

For once, Connor was thankful for the cold water spewing from the shower head. It helped to wake him up, get his head in the game. After lunch with Murphy, he was left with three more hours of work – time enough to put a plan into play. Over sandwiches, the brothers had discussed Pam and her reluctance to go on a date with Connor.

"She's not the lovey-dovey type, aye? The last guy she was wit' showered her with flowers at work, romantic dinners, nights at the symphony…he really pulled out all the stops, right?" Murphy paused to take a bite of his pastrami before washing it down with a swig of Guinness.

Connor shrugged and tore into his ham on rye, fiddling with the label on his bottle of root beer (hey, he was _working_! He didn't want to lose a hand in a grinder, or anything!). "What girl wouldn't like that sort of thing?"

"That's what I was thinkin'. Asked her as much. Turns out that 'er Prince Charming was actually wining and dining three other women as well. She fell hard, Conn. Told 'erself that she wasn't goin' to get swept away again."

Connor chewed this, and his sandwich, for a bit. "So the romantic angle isn't goin' to work?"

Murphy shrugged. "I think she's just fine wit' keepin' things casual. I think ye caught 'er off guard on Saturday." He took another chug on his beer. "But I think she likes ye. Though I can't think of reason why." Before he could react, Connor swung and landed a punch in his right bicep. "Ow! _Feck_, Conn, watch it!"

Connor stopped short and gave his brother a peculiar stare. "Feckin' _pussy_. What tha hell, Murph. Ye getting soft on me?"

Murphy scowled and rubbed his bicep. His brother hadn't nailed him right on the new tattoo, the muscles were a little tender from flexing and tensing for 30 minutes. "No," he groused, yanking his sweater over his head. "I needed a feckin' appointment to talk ta her, too." He rolled up his sleeve and jabbed a finger towards the square of white gauze taped over the inside of his bicep.

Connor looked from his brother's face to the gauze, and then back to his brother's face, before dissolving into a fit of laughter. "Oh, she's stubborn, isn't she? Kinda like someone else I know," he added, giving Murphy a pointed look.

"Oh, go feck yerself, ye fecking arse. I had to get a tattoo _and_ get ogled by some cougar in her fourties."

"You loved every minute of it, didn't ya?" Connor teased. "So, what did ya get? Please, tell me it's a banner that says 'Mother' on it. Ma will have yer hide!" He started laughing again.

"No way," Murphy smiled triumphantly. "M'not showin' ya till _after_ ye've had yer appointment."


	5. Chapter 5

"Nice jeans."

Connor looked up from an issue of _Flash_ to see Pam standing in the doorway, the beaded curtain swept away on either side of her. She looked different – _again_ – and Connor couldn't help but stare at the tight black jeans that looked to be painted on her impossibly long legs. Her combat boots were laced to the knee and she wore a plaid tank top, all blues and greens. It barely reached her navel and again, Connor's eye was drawn to the silver hoop there. She cleared her throat after a moment and he looked up, realising that he hadn't answered her compliment.

"Ah. Thank ye." He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets.

She regarded him silently, and then nodded through the beaded curtain. "This way."

He grabbed his coat and followed her to a small room. "This is the first time I've had ta do this, lass," he said casually as he watched her ass sway in her jeans.

Pam looked back over her shoulder, her tawny hair pulled back in a French braid to show off her neck. Her eyebrow crept up. "What? Getting a tattoo? I find that hard to believe." She moved to her workbench.

"No, I mean," Connor paused tossing his coat to a bench and settling on the chair his brother had occupied hours before. "This." He waved his hand around. "Makin' an appointment just to talk to a lass."

She fiddled with the autoclave. "You like easy women, I take it? Don't like having to work too hard for it?"

Connor frowned at her sour tone and ran a hand through his hair. "Pamela," he said solemnly, "whoever burned ye, m'not him, lass. Don' take it out on me, please." He watched her shoulders (her _amazing_ shoulders) move up and down as she breathed silently. He feared he crossed a line, but finally she turned and folded her arms over her chest.

"You're right. Sorry," she mumbled. She gestured to the room. "It's not like I'm trying to be difficult," she started. "I'm trying to make a living. I don't get paid just to talk."

Connor grinned and nodded. "S'all right, lass. Don' want ye thrown out of yer home, do I?" He stood and moved to the walls where the panels of generic tattoos – the kinds that young kids got – and looked them over. "D'ye have a favourite?"

"A favourite?" Pam shook her head. "I prefer original artwork."

"How about somethin' that ye haven't done before? Something from the wall." He gestured to the pictures. "Ye need yer practice, right?"

"Yes," she sighed, rolling her eyes. She turned to the wall with Connor. "I don't actually get a lot of requests from here," she said. "Most people come in knowing what they want."

"What did Murph get?"

"He didn't show you?"

Connor shook his head.

"Well, I'm not telling. Don't you know that tattoos are very sacred, only meant to be seen by those who understand their meaning?" She glanced at his forearm, nodding to the Celtic cross. "That one's easy enough." She nodded to the Virgin Mary at his neck. "So is that one." She reached out and touched him, drawing her fingers down his pointer finger and along his hand, tracing the word _vertias_. "_This_," she said, pausing on the 's', "is a little more cryptic. I looked it up – Latin, for 'truth', right?"

"Aye," Connor murmured softly, turning his hand over so that her fingertips brushed his palm. When she first touched him, it had been like electricity, and now, warmth spread through his hand, up his arm, and into his chest. He withdrew his hand and touched her shoulder, sliding across the scrolling vine and leaves there. "An' this?" He murmured, catching her gaze and refusing to let it go. "What does this mean?"

"I go where I please, stubborn, like a vine."

Connor smiled broadly. "Surprise me," he said, gesturing to the wall.

Pam gaped at him. "No way." She shook her head. "Nuh-uh. Ain't gonna happen, Irish."

"I trust ye," Connor summed up with a shrug.

Pam glanced at the wall, her golden eyes glittering as she surveyed her options. A smile slowly formed on her lips and she turned back to Connor, raking her gaze up and down his body before settling once more on his pelvic region.

"Take your pants off."

Connor blinked. "Beg yer pardon, lass?"

"Your pants. Take them off." When he hesitated, Pam sighed. "You had no problems getting naked yesterday," she teased.

"Aye, but…" Connor paused and a faint blush touched his neck and his ears. "That was diff'ren'," he concluded with a decisive nod.

Pam stared at him for a spell, wondering where the brass and balls Irishman she'd met the day before had disappeared to. Then it dawned on her. "This is because you know my grandmother, isn't it?"

"What?" He bristled. "No. S'not. It's just…"

Pam laughed and tapped the watch on her wrist. "Time's ticking, Connor. And if my Jedi comes back here and finds I'm doing more chatting than inking, we may have a problem."

"Yer…yer _Jedi_?"

"My trainer. My guru. My _Yoda_," Pam elaborated. "Cynthia? The gal with the black hair sitting up front? She's bound to check on me – you should have seen her hovering over Murphy, and he only had his shirt off."

Connor snorted and rolled his eyes. "Oh, aye, that makes me want to drop trou' even more," he grumbled, his hand going to his belt buckle. "Wait, Murph was shirtless?"

Pam nodded and smiled.

Connor's face split into a grin. "Lord's name, girl, 'ow is it that ye had _both_ MacManus brothers out of their clothes within forty-eight hours?"

She merely nodded and began assembling a needle. "It's part of the job – being able to charm young men out of their clothes."

He burst out laughing. When it subsided, he sighed and worked open his belt. "Aye, yer part succubus, most likely," he growled with a wink.

She turned back to her bench for a second and felt her skin flush when she heard the heavy _clunk_ of Connor's jeans hitting the tile floor. When she turned back to face him, he stood in his white boxers, black T shirt, and a pair of heavy black work boots. And a shit-eating grin. "Well then, love. Where are ye puttin' this?"

* * *

He had to give her credit – she'd seen him on two separate occasions where she had managed to get his pants off and there was no sex involved. She was a bit of a mystery, he decided, and he further decided that he liked that. All too often women threw themselves at him, telling him everything and expecting him to open up the same way. Connor stared at the ceiling, contemplating this. Yes, Pam was a challenge. A flash of sharp pain against his right hipbone brought him round and he hissed, making a face and looking down the length of his body.

" 'Ow's it goin' then, lass? Are ye gonna tell me what it is, or do I have ta wait till yer done?" He stared at the top of her head; she was currently draped over his pelvis, her right arm pressing against his thighs as she worked. Another thought crossed his mind: never had he had a woman so close to his crotch and not get a blow job. Not that he was complaining. He was actually enjoying the simple conversations they were having while was sprawled on her chair, staring down at the top of her head. She had blonde and red highlights.

She looked up to answer him and his heart stuttered in a strange sort of way. Pam's eyes were amazing, green on the outside of the iris, fading to gold near the pupil, and his blood warmed with the way that she looked at him. She smiled, her pink mouth curving lusciously and suddenly Connor was doing everything in his power to remember footie scores and will away the stirring in his groin.

"I already told you, you wanted a surprise, you're getting one." Then she bent her head back to her work.

There was no sound save for the buzz of the needle and the music coming from another cubicle, and Connor let her work in silence for a spell. "What made you want to be a tattoo artist, love?"

Pam chuckled, her breath moving across his bare skin, and his brain scrambled. "You meet the most _interesting_ people," she quipped, glancing up again, this time with a wink.

_Shit, think of something else! Her arm is right there! She's gonna feel ye gettin' a 'ard on and then ye'll be up shite creek, lad!_

"Are ye from here? Boston, I mean?" He hurriedly moved on to another subject while thinking of dead puppies.

"I was born in Ireland, actually," Pam revealed, pausing to pick up another spot of green ink from the pot. "But moved here when I was two. So yeah, I guess I'm from Boston."

"No shite, where were ye born, lass?"

"Erm…Wicklow." She pressed the needle to Connor's skin again and he shifted with the little zap of pain. "Stay still," she murmured.

"That's close to where me and Murph are from. We was born in Clane."

"My dad was born in Coill Dubh!" She exclaimed, looking up with wide eyes. "We're practically neighbours!"

Connor smiled and nodded, and then swerved his glance down to his hip. He cursed as Pam's hand cupped around the tattoo, blocking it from his view. "No cheating," she purred.

_Lord's Name, now she's purrin'! I'm not gonna last, m'only a man!_

"And who do we have here?"

Connor's eyes cut to the door where Cynthia (at least, he assumed it was Cynthia, given her dark hair) stood in the doorway with a rather expectant look. She looked Connor up and down, pausing on the Celtic cross and then flicking to the Virgin Mary. "Ah, you must be the brother of that hot Black Irish guy from this afternoon. Murray, was it?"

* * *

"Murphy," Pam muttered from where she worked. She glanced up at Cynthia. "This _is_ his brother. His _twin_ brother, Connor." For some reason, she didn't like the way Cynthia was looking at him. It was almost predatory. Maybe because she'd spent the last half hour curled up in his crotch, she was feeling a little territorial. She sat back a moment and wiped away the excess ink from Connor's hip, her fingertips lingering on the smooth skin.

"Twins?" Cynthia crowed with a raised eyebrow. "Really? I never would have guessed."

Pam glanced to Connor who had in turn glanced to her. She gave him a smile and quick roll of the eyes. "Come to see how I'm doing?"

Cynthia strolled in, nodding, and took a seat on the left side of Connor's pelvis. She craned her neck, trying to see what Pam was working on. When she finally got a look, she frowned, and looked to Connor. "You picked this." It wasn't a question, more of a statement of disbelief.

"Ah, technically, no, I didn't. I asked her to surprise me." Connor beamed and then shrugged. "I'm strangely comfortable wit it."

"Don't move," Pam admonished again. "You're gonna end up crooked.

"She's almost done," Cynthia pointed out.

"Really?" Connor asked, a little puzzled. "She's only been down there fer twenty minutes."

The room went silent until Pam spoke up. "There's a blow job joke here, people, just waiting to be picked up. Come on, don't disappoint."

"That's what he said," Cynthia quipped.

Connor snorted with laughter.

"Thanks, Cyn," Pam deadpanned. She looked to the other woman. "You gonna stay to watch me tape him up?" she asked as she set the needle down and gave another wipe to the tattoo.

Cynthia tilted her head, looking at the artwork, and then looked to Pam who was watching her rather closely. Connor shifted in his seat. "Uh…" she looked between Pam and Connor, who were watching each other, and sighed. "No. He's good to go, it looks like. Do you have anyone else booked tonight?" She stood and headed for the door.

"Not that I know of, no."

"All right, finish up here. Then you can go. I think you've had enough excitement for one night." She smiled wanly and vanished around a corner.

Pam sat back and smiled up at Connor. "All finished. Tell me what you think."

* * *

_A bit of a cliffy here...don't worry, you'll find out what Connor's tattoo is either later tonight or sometime tomorrow. We're getting closer to smut, promise!_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: So, I waffled a bit on what Connor's tattoo was going to be. The other choice was a heart, but this was funnier to me. Enjoy! No smut here, but in the next chapter, we'll see some action... I don't know if I've mentioned this but I don't have a beta...I don't believe in Betas, I just believe in me. Any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors (though far and few between) are mine and they're likely to stay that way if they aren't affecting the overall story. I'm too lazy to go back, edit, repost... not a lot of time since baby was born so I write and post as I can!_

_Some questioning as to the location of Connor's tattoo, the hip being an uncommon area for a guy to get inked. Every seen a guy with a tattoo on his hip? In my younger days I encountered a guy with a tattoo of a Celtic triskele on his hip and I thought it was one of the hottest things I'd ever seen!_

_Thanks to those who have stopped by, read, reviewed, favorited, followed...mana from heaven, people._

* * *

"A _clover_? Ye feckin' branded me wit' a clover, lass? An' a four-leaf one, at dat!" He couldn't tell if he was upset or amused, and so he wandered in between, glancing from the blaringly green, quarter sized shamrock just below the jut of his hipbone, to Pam, who looked like she was going to die giggling. "Oh, aye, yer takin' the piss, aren't ye?" He shook his head, defeated. He did say 'surprise me'. He narrowed his eyes and looked closer at the new tattoo. "Is that…" his eyes traced the black lines of ink just inside the tattoo. "Is that the letter 'P'?"

Pam leaned forward and wiped the cloth over his hip again. "Uh, yes, I believe it is."

"Christ, m'never gettin' laid again!" Connor groaned. "Ye've branded me, lass!" Still, he couldn't help the smile on his face.

"Oh, come on, 'P' can stand for a lot of things!" she argued, still chuckling.

"Oh, aye, like what?"

"Potatoes," she blurted out before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

"M'not even goin' to dignify that with an answer," he sniffed. "And yer _Irish_, lass!"

"Pints?" she tried. "Patrick, as in Saint, peat, as in peat bog…" she trailed off, her eyes shining.

"But that's not what it stands fer, is it?"

She shrugged. "You can take it for whatever it means, Connor."

"Well, then I guess ye _are_ havin' dinner wit' me."

This made her sober quickly. She blinked a few times. "I'm sorry?"

Connor was already stepping into his jeans. "Ye take a chance brandin' a lad, ye got te back it up. Dinner. Tonight."

"I already ate," she shrugged. "Come here, I have to tape that up."

"Stop bein' so feckin' stubborn and just go out wit' me!" Connor crowed with a bit of a scowl.

Pam sat back with wide eyes, the gauze and tape in her hands forgotten. "Did you just…did you just _yell_ at me? And you want me to go out on a date with you?"

The glibness in her tone struck Connor and this time he really did scowl. "Ah, feckin' ferget it, lass. M'not jumpin' trew anymore hoops, aye? An' I don' need ye te tape me up. M'fine. Do it when I git 'ome." He moved to zip his fly, already grabbing up his coat.

"I could go for a pint?"

Her voice was soft, questioning, and when he turned she seemed slightly sheepish. "I'm not hungry – I really did eat already." She gave him half a smile. "But I'm always up for a pint."

Connor paused and looked at her for a moment, before running a hand over his hair and nodding. "Aye," he murmured. "Aye, let's make it two. I'm needin' it after dealin' wit ya."

* * *

They sat side by side on stools that lined the bar at _Brickyard_, a dive joint that served pizza by the slice and the coldest beer in town. Connor had complained of being hungry when she had joined him in the reception area of _Aces High_, and so she told him she'd take him to her favourite night spot for after work. There was an interesting collection of people stuffed into the booths and sitting around the tables – college students, blue collars, and white collars were all munching on huge slices and chugging back beer right from the bottle.

For a small establishment, they offered an array of beers both exotic and import. Connor, however, couldn't be swayed to drink Guinness from the can ('Wouldn't be proper, lass' he'd explained) and so he had settled with a Stock Ale from Canada that was currently knocking him on his ass, and he was only on bottle number three.

Pam giggled at something he said and fiddled with the label of her Tiger lager and took another sip. "You probably shouldn't have too many," she spoke up as Connor waved down the bartender and gestured for a fourth bottle. "Don't want you to bleed out."

"Feck off," he growled playfully. "M'not likely to bleed out, lass."

"That shit's Canadian," she warned. "They like their alcohol content high. You might be on yer arse sooner than ye tink."

Connor blinked at her and the slight lilt of her words. "Pamela Leary, d'I detect a _brogue_? D'ye get all tick wit' dat accent when ye drink, love?" He nudged her with an elbow.

"Listen to you," Pam replied. "I thought you were going to start Riverdancin' when you were ranting back at the shop. Happens when you get upset enough?"

He shrugged and thanked the bartender as another bottle was placed before him. It was true, what she said. Five years in America was enough to curb his brogue, Murphy's more so, but when they got riled up – drunk, angry, hell, even horny (at least once for Connor) – those in their company were not likely to catch the entire conversation.

Connor turned on his stool and studied Pam for a moment, his eyes zeroing in on the vine tattoo that peeked out on her shoulder. "Been meanin' te ask," he said after swallowing, and he reached up with two fingers to trace the tattoo that swept over her collarbone. He grinned softly when he felt her shiver. "Where exactly does this go?"

"I don't think that's first date material, Connor," she answered slyly. But she turned her body towards his anyway.

"Oh, it's a date now, is it? Ye were pretty clear on the way here dat ye wanted t'keep tings casual like." He leaned a little closer, turning his body so that his knees slid to either side of her leg. For a second he squeezed her there, watching as her eyes sparked, and he picked up his beer and took a sip, his eyes never leaving hers.

Pam did the same, grabbing her bottle, pressing it against her lips for a spell. "I can be persuaded to change my mind."

Connor swallowed and set the bottle down, leaning even closer, one arm sliding onto the bar and the other hooking onto the back of her stool. "I tink dat's de beer talkin', lass."

"Hmmm…I've only had two. You're the one who's doing double time."

He hooked one foot onto the bottom of her stool and dragged her a little closer. "So, if I were, ta say, maybe kiss ye, I wouldn't be takin' advantage?" He smirked, blue eyes dancing.

Pam's eyes widened for a split second. Then her cheeks flushed and she slid back off of the stool. "Be right back," she murmured, gathering her purse and heading towards the washroom.

He watched her go – he loved watching her go, almost as much as he liked watching her arrive… _Aye, an' ye sure as feck wouldn't mind watching the lass come, wouldya?_ He shook his head. Too strong, he thought. He came on a little too strong with that last quip. What had Murph said? Ah, yes. 'Keep it casual.' Connor had snorted at _that_. He was the _king_ of casual. Wasn't that why most lasses never really stuck around after the first week or two? Connor sat back with a sigh, flagging down the bartender and ordering two slices of Boston Royal for himself.

* * *

Pam leaned her hands on the stainless steel counter in the ladies' room and stared at her reflection. _You already gave yourself one lecture at the shop_, her inner voice groused. Before leaving _Aces High_, she had asked Connor to wait at reception while she straightened out her room. On auto-pilot as she cleaned, her brain was running a mile a minute, and she was muttering her thoughts as she went.

"He's cute," she started. "Really, really cute. Handsome. Charming. A flirt. Accent. Blue eyes…stop it Pam," she finished harshly. "Yer a sucker for blue eyes. And brown eyes. And accents. Ah, face it, yer a sucker for men. And where did that get you last time?" She growled in frustration as she tied off the bag in her garbage can.

"He might be different," she paused. "Grandma seems to like him. She's always been a good judge of…shit, are you taking dating advice from Grandma?" She shook her head. "_I'm_ a good judge of character, too," she decided. "But he's very persuasive. And persistent. That can be good." She frowned. "Or bad."

Still, she had pulled on her coat and grabbed her purse, and she couldn't have helped the smile that split her face when Connor stood as she wandered back into the reception area. He really was gorgeous.

"Kryptonite," Pam sighed, turning the taps on in the bathroom and washing her hands. She dried them and then smoothed her hair down and checked her makeup. She focused on the vine tattoo at her shoulder and shivered at the memory of Connor's fingertips there. Christ, when he had asked where it went, she had been half tempted to jump up, strip, and show him. Thank god, she was in a public place. The battle between her conscience and her libido was doing a number on her. It _had_ been a few months since Pete. She was due for a little fun, wasn't she? Why had she stopped him from kissing her?

"Did you see the guy sitting at the bar when we came in?"

Pam glanced up at the voices that echoed in the washroom and watched as two women, maybe a few years older than her, sauntered in and each occupied a stall.

"The broody guy at the end?" One asked.

"No, the gorgeous one with the blue eyes and that devil-may-care smirk!" The other answered.

Pam's eyes narrowed at her reflection. She may have just met him, but she would describe Connor exactly the same way. She tuned her ear to listen.

"Oh my god, _yes_!" The first one hissed.

"Do you think he's here alone?"

A toilet flushed, followed by a second, and the two women convened at the sink, smiling at each other.

"I don't know," the first trilled. "I didn't see anyone with him. If I was out with a guy like that, I'd be hard pressed to leave him alone for a second!"

"He's not," Pam heard herself say. She turned and leaned back against the sink, crossing her arms over her chest and plastering a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

The two women looked at her, confused. "He's not what?" they asked simultaneously.

"He's not 'ere alone," she clarified. She pushed away from the sink and motored back out into the bar, knowing that the two women were hot on her heels. She stopped behind Connor's stool and grabbed the back before spinning him around to face her.

"Oi!" He yelped, barely able to set his beer on the bar. He was flushed as he came to see Pam and he stared at her a moment. "Pam?" he asked cautiously.

Her face was a mask of determination. "Kiss me," she blurted out.

He scowled, confused. "I thought that…"

She interrupted him by stepping between his legs and cupping his face gently with her hands. "Don't talk," she breathed, closing her eyes and licking her lips. She tasted him before their mouths even touched, sweet and smoky. When her lips finally brushed against his, her knees trembled at the soft moan that rumbled from his chest. She pressed her lips harder, enough so that their lips flushed out, wet, warm, and soft.

It only lasted a few seconds, but when she pulled back enough that she could focus on his face, she was pleased to find him with his eyes closed and his lips still lightly pursed. She took the opportunity to throw a quick glance over her shoulder, and sure enough, the women from the washroom looked on, gaping. After Pam raised a questioning eyebrow, they shuffled off, throwing her dirty looks. She grinned and turned back to Connor.

"What," he breathed, before opening his eyes, "was tha' fer?"

She could feel herself getting lost in those blue depths. A plate was set down on the bar, baring two slices of pizza laden with ham, mushrooms, peppers, olives, and pepperoni. Pam flicked her eyes to the bartender. "He'll take it to go."

* * *

She hadn't said anything since asking for his order to be switched to take out. Styrofoam container in hand, Connor waited for Pam to pull her jacket on before following her out into the street. When she turned to look at him, anything he was thinking of saying left his brain and he quickly backed her against the brick façade of the building. He shoved the pizza box onto a convenient window sill and grabbed her firmly at the waist, drawing her towards him.

Their second kiss was even better than the first. The surprise was gone, but none of the bone-aching longing, the tingling in lips and limbs, the soft, wet slide of his tongue against hers. She mewled into his mouth and fisted his sweater before pulling away with a gasp.

"We should stop," she whispered hotly, before sliding a hand into his hair and pulling his lips back to hers.

"Aye," he groaned, before sucking at her bottom lip and curling his hands over her hips, his fingertips pressing against her ass. "Take tings slow," he muttered. "Casual." His last word was dissolved as he took her mouth again and ground his hips against hers.

"Mmm," she moaned, breaking the kiss. "This is definitely not first date material," she slurred, staring first at his eyes and then at his mouth. She moved forward again.

"I woulda been fine 'oldin 'ands," he said between kisses. He groaned as her hands slid from his hair, down his shoulders and over his chest. She hooked her fingers into the waist of his jeans and tugged him forward.

Her tongue glided along his and she nipped at his bottom lip. "Somehow, I doubt that."

The backs of her fingers met his bare stomach and his skin tingled everywhere. She was blowing his mind already, and he hadn't even gotten her horizontal. Emboldened by her move, he trailed his hands up until he was cupping her breasts. Her whimpered reply vibrated against his mouth. "Lord's name, girl, ye got great tits," he muttered against her ear as his thumbs stroked over her nipples. He moved back a bit and stared at her. "Ye got great every'tin'," he added thickly.

She smiled and ran her hands to the back of his sweater, slipping over the warm skin at the base of his spine. "Ye just don't shut up, do ya?"

He smiled slyly. "Maybe ye should make me."


	7. Chapter 7

"So, dis whole 'first date, second date material'…ye don' actually follow a set o'rules, do ya?"

Connor had collapsed on the bed next to Pam, sweating and stark naked save for the smirk. He fished around blindly for his jeans and found them, digging the cigarettes from his pocket.

Beside him, Pam laughed, staring at the ceiling, still throbbing between her legs. "What do _you_ think?" Her answer was the cool click of his Zippo opening and then closing, and the sweet smell of tobacco.

Sighing, she turned onto her side and watched him for a moment. To say that he had just melted her brain was a fair assessment. Connor continued to smoke, sprawled on his back with his eyes closed. She focused on his lips.

"_Ye just don't shut up, do ya?"_

_He smiled slyly. "Maybe ye should make me."_

She'd found all sorts of things for him to do with his mouth that required little to no talking. It had started off in the stairwell of her brownstone where she rented the upper floor. No sooner had she announced that 'This is me' did Connor haul her back to him and slant his mouth against hers, his fingers gripping at her waist more insistently. His lips moved from hers and across her jaw to land on her ear, sucking and biting at the lobe while his hands found her breasts once more.

"Shit, lass," he groaned. "We keep this up and I'm likely te have at ye right here on the stairs."

The breadth of his brogue spoken in his soft voice was enough to make her toes curl in her boots. Her blood grew hotter. "I have neighbours," she chided, spinning out of his hold reluctantly and trying to slide her key into the lock. "And the neighbours have kids," she added when Connor's hand caught her belt and pulled her back against his front.

"Early education," he mumbled, moving aside the long tail of her braid and giving a quick lick to the nape of her neck. "Ye smell so good," he breathed, raising goose bumps on her shoulders.

Her resolve, if she ever had any, was stripped away as he pressed his pelvis against her ass. A muffled groan floated up from the pair, along with a hissing breath and Pam dropped her keys as Connor yanked her around once more and held her against the glass door. His fingers hooked her belt loops and moved her against him in a rocky rhythm that conveyed just exactly what he wanted to do. "Tell me if I'm goin' at ye too fast," he breathed.

If she was going to answer, she lost her chance as he kissed her harder than before. With his fingers still hooked into her belt loops, he flipped the button open with his thumb and traced light circles on the soft skin of her belly as he licked her mouth. She automatically bucked into his warmth and snapped her head back, breaking the kiss roughly. "Fuck, Conn," she breathed, "inside. Keys. Now." Her speech was as broken and jumbled as her thoughts; the only thing she knew for certain was that she needed to get him upstairs in order for this to go the way she was hoping it would.

He swooped down, leaving Pam to catch her breath, and appeared again seconds later dangling her keys in front of her face. "Right." He stole another kiss. "Let Connor handle this, aye?" He nudged her aside and popped the lock quickly. "After you, lass," he gestured to the open door.

* * *

Because really, he wanted to see that ass as she climbed the stairs. She smirked and sauntered into the foyer, putting extra effort into the sway of her hips. Connor growled, pressing the heel of his hand against the fly of his jeans and wincing at the spike of pleasure that rocked through him. She knew _exactly_ what kind of effect she had on him, he was fairly sure. She climbed the stairs, casting him small glances from under her lashes every so often, and when she had finally led him to her door, he almost trampled her with his eagerness.

She giggled as they fell into the apartment, and held him at arms length for a moment. "Easy, Irish. We have all night. Can I at least take my boots off?" She gestured to her heavy combat boots.

"If ye have ta," he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Pam grinned and pulled at her laces. "Take your coat off. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want another beer?"

Connor's face brightened as he toed his boots off. "Ye got Guinness?"

"Harp," Pam clarified.

"Piss in a bottle. Harp's fer kiddies, lass." He chuckled and hung his coat up on the hooks behind her door. "Take yer bag?"

"Thanks." She handed him her purse and led him to the kitchen after he hung it up.

Her apartment was small, really no need for more space when there was only one person there, and he paused at a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, jammed with all sorts of interesting reads. He perused the titles, tilting his head to the side and reading them off to himself.

"I have some Jamieson," she called out.

"That'll do, lass," Connor answered. "Didja read all o'dese, den?" He asked when she came back with a glass of whiskey for him and a beer for herself.

"Most of them. These ones here," she pointed to the top shelf, "I've read more than once. They're my favourites. These ones are more coffee table material," she continued with the second shelf. "You know, random things like Greek Architecture, The Pyramids…"

"Irish History?" Connor mused, pulling out the book and looking over the cover. "Lot of contradictin' facts in that, I bet." He put the book back and took a sip of whiskey. Turning back to the bookcase, one particular title caught his eye: "The Handbook of Knots and Knot-tying," he read out. He glanced back to Pam with a cocked eyebrow. "Now, what's a nice lass like you doin' wit a book about knots?"

Pam answered with her own eyebrow raised. "Sometimes a girl just needs to know things."

"Is dat right?" Connor murmured. "An' does Gradma O'Reilly know that ye know so much about knots and knot-tyin'?"

Pam narrowed her eyes with a chuckle. "You know, fer a fella who's trying to get laid, ye sure know how t'kill the mood. Don't bring up my Grandma." She made a face and sank into the couch.

Connor laughed and sank down beside her, her knot-tying book in one hand and his whiskey in the other. Propping his feet up on her table, he let the book fall open in his lap. "What d'we 'ave 'ere…the _handcuff_ knot. Now, this is interestin'." He flicked his gaze to Pam who was trying her damndest not to blush. "Any reason as to why this book falls open to this particular page, love?"

"You'd just love to know, wouldn't ya?"

Connor leaned forward and set his drink down. "Aye. As a matter o'fact, I would."

"Tryin' to tell me ye like bein' tied up, Conn?"

He pursed his lips in thought for a moment. "Don't know, lass," he shrugged. "Never been tied up b'fore."

"That's actually third date material," Pam quipped with a chuckle.

Connor snorted and took up his whiskey again, draining it in one shot. "Can I get another?"

Pam gave him a sideways look with half a smile and took his glass. "Sure." She stood smoothly and headed into the kitchen.

Connor trailed behind slowly, still taking in the details of her apartment. His perusal of her DVD collection was interrupted by a small crash, followed by Pam swearing sharply. "Ye all right?"

* * *

Pam shut her eyes tight and bit her lip against screaming. "Fine," she called back in a shaky voice. "Just broke a glass." She glanced down at her left hand, wincing at the gash at the base of her thumb. "Fuck," she swore again, tightly. She cranked the cold water and shoved her hand underneath, squealing sharply at the stab of pain.

"Pam?" Connor wandered into the kitchen and joined her at the sink. "Ye all…" he trailed off as he poked his head over her shoulder. "Ah, shit, lass, 'ere. Lemme help." He took her injured hand in his and tilted it towards the light. "I tink dere's glass innit." He moved to push it under the running water again and Pam went rigid, trying to pull her hand back. "Shhh," he soothed, looking into her eyes, never letting go of her hand. "C'mon, lass, let Connor 'elp, aye?" He gave her a small smile.

Pam felt the tears welling in her eyes. It didn't actually hurt that much but the thought of being cut open, of the possibility of stitches…well, it didn't sit quite right with her. She shook her head and whimpered. "No," she mumbled, pulling against him.

Connor laughed softly. "S'just a little blood, aye? 'Ave to get it clean, love, so I can get the glass out." He was gentle but firm and held her hand under the water. "Look at me, love," he instructed. "Shh, that's right."

"M'not a spooked horse," she grumbled. Still, she let his gaze hold hers and finally softened her muscles enough for Connor to drag her hand under the rushing cold water. "Fuck!" she yelped, kicking the door of the bottom cupboard.

"Ye _sure_ yer not a spooked horse? Those legs kickin' an all…" He glanced down and frowned. "I can see a piece of glass from here. Don't move – keep it under the water, yeah? Ye got tweezers? A first aid kit?"

She nodded, her teeth chattering slightly. "Under the sink in the bathroom. Second door on your right."

He dashed off and while she was alone, she mustered enough courage to look at the cut once more. It wasn't oozing blood as quickly and the water washed it clean as it welled. The ebb and flow of blood was almost hypnotic and she didn't notice Connor's return until he was right beside her. He pulled a towel from the oven door and wrapped her hand in it before raising it above her head slowly, his eyes finding hers again. "Elevation," he murmured, reaching to turn the taps off. He led her to the kitchen table and sat her down under the overhead light.

When he'd rummaged through the first aid kit and found what he was looking for, he laid everything out – gauze, tape, scissors, tweezers, and peroxide. "Hand it over," he ordered, smiling at his own joke. He didn't wait for her to move, merely took her hand in the towel and laid it on the table between them, and unwrapped it slowly. "Bleedin's slowed," he muttered.

She was staring at a point over Connor's shoulder, not willing to look at the cut in her hand. "Does it need stitches?" She prayed it didn't – that would really set her back at the tattoo shop.

She felt more than saw Connor shrug. "Don't tink so. But I'm not a doctor, aye?" She felt his fingers close around her wrist and hold her in a steely grip before a wave of hot, stinging pain flashed through her thumb.

"Shit!"

"Shhh," he admonished.

The heat was replaced by cool air and she glanced down to see Connor blowing on the cut as he set the bottle of peroxide aside. Immediately, she focused on his mouth, unconsciously licking her own lips. She wouldn't have to move much, just lean in and…

"I'm gonna take the glass out now," he announced, looking up at her. He grabbed up the tweezers and steadied her hand once more. "So, are you going to tell me why you _really_ started tattooing?"

Her eyes flew back to the point past him, knowing that he was trying to distract her. She tried to focus on his question instead of what he had done with his lips just ten minutes ago. "Ummm," she started shakily. "I was really good at art in high school. I went to an art and design college in Virginia and spent a lot of time in a shop one summer in Richmond." She stifled a whimper as she felt Connor dig around with the tweezers.

"Because of that?" he questioned, motioning at the vine on her shoulder. "Ow long did that take?"

"Five visits in total," Pam breathed out. "I only had to pay for half. I worked the other half off, doing stencil work, taking out the garbage, working the front desk…grunt work." She hissed at a particularly sharp tug.

"Sorry," Connor mumbled. "So, let me get this straight, you sat for five visits and got a tattoo from top to…well, I'm assuming bottom…" he paused and caught her fleeting glimpse with a smile. "An' yer squirming about a tiny cut?"

"I'm left handed," she sighed. "So if you could not botch this, I'd be grateful."

"Right," he said, setting the tweezers down. He took her hand in both of his and tilted it further to the light, pulling gently at the edges of the cut. "I tink I got it all," he announced softly. He handed her a piece of gauze. "Hold it over the cut."

He worked quickly with the tape and in less than two minutes Pam was sporting a rather impressive looking bandage. "Let me guess," she said wryly, wiggling her fingers. "Pre med?"

Connor howled with laughter and gathered up the supplies, replacing them in the first aid kit and closing the lid. "Close," he purred. "Cub scouts."

Pam rolled her eyes with a smile. "Seriously?"

"What?" Connor sniffed defensively. "I was actually quite good at it, I'll have ye know."

"Murphy, too?"

"Nah, Murph played baseball." He nodded to her hand. "Think you can still use it?"

Pam moved her fingers with a small wince. "Maybe not right away. Should make doing most things interesting." She frowned. "It's throbbing."

Connor smirked. "Aye, dat's what she said." Before Pam could say anything, Connor reached to the counter and pulled the bottle of Jamieson to the table. "Have a drink, lass. Make it numb."

Grabbing the bottle by the neck she unscrewed the cap and fixed Connor with a curious gaze. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Don' 'ave to try to 'ard, do I?" he quipped. "I'll get ye a glass."

* * *

Connor watched as Pam rolled the glass along the tabletop until it thudded gently on the side of the Jamieson bottle. "More, please," she sang softly.

He finished his own glass and poured for the both of them.

"How many is this?" she asked, maybe a little on the slow side.

He smirked. "Four. How are ye feelin'?"

Pam shrugged, exaggerated by her foggy mind, and then thought about it for a moment. "I have to pee," she decided, standing up on wobbly knees. "Jayzus, I knew there was a reason I didn't drink whiskey." She flashed Connor a wide grin. "If you hear a loud crash, that's just me going head first in the toilet." She giggled and made her way down the hall.

Connor smiled at her retreat and sat back into the couch cushions. He felt comfortable here. He liked her space with her mad collection of books and random things on the bookshelves. He spied the stereo and unfolded his frame, shuffling towards it. Shit, it still played vinyl and sure enough she had a small collection of records nearby.

"Find anythin' good?" he heard her ask. He turned to answer and was caught slightly off guard by the open belt buckle and top button of her jeans. She looked down and shrugged. "It's amazing all the little things you can't do with only one hand."

He was still staring at the flash of red under her jeans. "Aye," he murmured, forcing himself to look up. "Doin' up yer pants," he said, nodding towards her.

Pam grinned. "Knitting."

Connor wandered towards her, knocking back the rest of his whiskey. "Tying yer shoes." He set the glass down on a nearby table and stood mere inches from her.

"Making bread," Pam breathed, her eyes dancing over his face as he closed the last few inches.

"Makin' love," Connor murmured against her mouth. He nibbled at her bottom lip and swiped at it with his tongue. "I can't knit, anyway."

Pam chuckled lowly and pressed her lips flush against his. "I'll teach you," she whispered as she pulled back. Her fingers caught the hem of his sweater and slid it up his chest, smiling as he raised his arms over his head.

Her touch was bold, palming the muscles of his chest and shoulders with her good hand, making a warm trail of tingling nerve ends. She tossed his sweater blindly behind her and snaked her hand around the nape of his neck to pull him towards her. As they kissed (and by Christ, he could spend hours kissing her) he found the fastener that held the tail of her braid closed and pulled it free. His fingers threaded expertly through the layers of her braid until her tawny waves tumbled free around her shoulders. She moaned and crushed her breasts against his chest.

He dove for her neck again, and quickly slid his lips and tongue to her shoulder, over the tattoo there, and his fingers pulled the tank top from her body. Her bra was red, brilliant against her soft, tanned skin, and he caught the straps with his fingers and slid them down, his lips following the trail of ink on the right side. Skimming her collarbone with his nose, he breathed her in, and the citrus and woodsy scent filled his senses. He felt her fingers slide into his hair and tug gently before curling back and tracing his ear. The space behind his earlobe was especially sensitive and she seemed to know this, tracing a spiral there and drawing a long groan out from him. He picked his head up and kissed her some more.

He slid a hand over her shoulder and down her spine, grasping the clasp of her bra between his fingers and clicking it open with one hand. His other hand grabbed the front of the bra and pulled it down her arms, baring her breasts to his eager eyes. He wasted no time and cupped her firm breasts, weighing them, squeezing softly as he rolled his tongue against hers. She gasped into the kiss, the sound searing him to the bone, and he let one hand drift to her hip to pull her up against him. He dug into her pelvis, moaning against her neck. His lips wandered down her throat, between her breasts, to draw one distended nipple into his mouth and flick his tongue against it. His cock throbbed in his jeans as his tongue rasped over the pebbled texture of her; the hand on her hip snuck to her open fly and he pressed his fingers gently against the top of her mound, feeling her heat through the cotton.

He heard her draw a shuddering breath and glanced up, his lips still firmly around her nipple, and grinned against her when he saw that she was looking down at him, her eyes brilliant green and shining. "This all right?" he murmured.

She nodded, clasping the back of his head and directing him to her other breast. "More," she begged. "Don't fucking stop."

* * *

_Cliffhanger dedicated to Valerie E Mackin...bwhahahahaahahaaa!_

_A little self insertion here (kinda) - I had been with my husband (then boyfriend) for about six months when I cut my finger really badly. I'm not a fan of being injured, I'm kind of a wuss (even though I had a baby with no drugs!) and I had to endure Brian's first aid all the while kicking and screaming which was a source of amusement for him. I kinda knew right then that if he had the patience to patch me up, he was ready to handle just about anything I could throw at him!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Here's some smut. Thanks for your patience!_

* * *

Dampness pooled between her legs, hot and aching, as she felt Connor tug her jeans from her hips and slide them down her thighs. Crouched at her feet he glanced up, smiling when he saw the last curling tendril of vine snaking around to the inside of her right thigh. He slowly stood, drawing his fingertips back up the permanent line until he cupped her neck and pulled her roughly to him. "I was right," he purred. "All the way down." He smirked and kissed her roughly.

She was certain that she'd never encountered a better kisser. When Connor kissed, it was with his whole body – his hands moved through her hair, his jean clad thigh pushed between hers, the rough fabric singing her nerves on her sensitive skin. Using his hips he guided her back until her ass bounced softly against the kitchen table. His fingers traced the skin just under the elastic on the leg openings of her panties, stroking back and forth until she was panting into his mouth – she hadn't even known about that spot and Connor had found it within seconds. His tongue continued to roll against hers, and teeth snagged lips and hot breath skated over hotter skin.

She found his belt, clutching it tightly in her right hand, and when his own hand closed over hers, she broke away from his mouth and looked into his blazing eyes. "Let me give ye a 'and wit' dat," he purred. He pulled the buckle open in seconds, and his jeans dropped with the same thud they had earlier that night. Grinning back at him, she pressed her hand down his belly and caught the waist of his boxers, pulling them down a few inches. Sucking in a breath she closed her eyes and dropped her hand inside, fisting his length firmly.

A sound somewhere between a sob and moan broke through Connor's lips and when she opened her eyes again, his lip was pulled up between his teeth and his eyes were screwed shut. With every breath his nostrils flared. He began to rock in time with her strokes and she became braver, swiping her thumb over the smooth head of him every time the foreskin was pushed back.

He trembled. He forced his eyes open, his pupils wide, and the ring of blue just beyond deep and shining. He quickly cast a glance over his shoulder and kicked a foot back, hooking the leg of a chair and dragging it up behind him. He sank down, looping an arm around Pam's back, and pulled her with him until she was seated in his lap. His cock stood between them as she balanced on his thighs and from that position she had more leverage. She didn't stop stroking and angled her head to his, dominating a kiss that scorched him to the marrow.

"What number date would this be?" he asked lowly, tugging at the waistband of her panties.

"Four," Pam panted. "At least four."

"Ooh, M'doin' good t'night, den."

Pam smacked his shoulder before grabbing his head and holding him steady. "Less talk. More fuck."

Connor groaned and nodded. "Though m'certain I could fuck ye trew yer underwear at dis stage, I tink we'll be more comfortable if we're completely nekkid."

Her nails scored his thighs she snatched his boxers down so fast. Hopping to her feet she shimmied out of her panties and climbed back into his lap. She rolled her hips impatiently, trying to impale herself on his cock. The head of his erection butted up against her clit and slid back down with each attempt until, finally, Connor snapped. With a growl he gripped her hip with one hand and his cock in the other, and pulled her down with a solid yank.

He grunted at her heat, her slick, tight hole, and how well she fit him. She gave a sharp cry and stared at him with wide eyes. He didn't miss a beat, however, and slid his hands up her flanks to curl under her arms and back over her shoulders, anchoring her to him. When she pushed up, he pulled her back down, and she cried out, her face open with delight.

Slowly, they worked like that, her rocking up and him dragging down like the undertow of the tumultuous Irish Sea. They built friction, neither of them daring to back down but instead urging each other on with every buck, every sigh, every moan. Tucking his chin to his chest, Connor tried to regulate his breathing, but when his eyes landed on her cunt swallowing the length of his cock, he all but roared and used the flat of one palm to slap her ass soundly.

"Christ, yer gorgeous bouncin' on me cock, lass," he panted as she wailed and rode him harder.

"Lord's name," she gasped, reaching down between them with her right hand. Her hips swirled into his and she grunted.

"Thas' right," Connor urged, bucking upwards and palming her ass roughly. He grinned as the hand between them jerked erratically.

She whimpered and shook her head, and furrowed her brow.

"Ye all right?" Connor asked, reaching to clear the sweat soaked strands of hair from her face.

She bit her lip and shook her head frantically. "Left handed," she reminded him. "Can't…oh, fuck," she chewed her lip. "Fuckin' touch me, Conn. Play with my clit."

"I can do dat," he said hurriedly, reaching and gliding his fingers over hers. He felt something there that he'd never encountered before. Angling his head down again, he spread her folds. He spotted a silver barbell hammered through the hood of the sensitive nub and his hips faltered. "Shite," he hissed. His eyes snapped back to hers. "Yer just full o' surprises, aren't ye?" His fingers slipped through her wetness and rubbed her.

She nodded and pushed her lips against his. A cry burst from her lungs as he gently tugged on the barbell and then twisted it with the pad of his thumb. "Oh! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, Conn, right there…faster…"

She could barely keep up with him. He didn't really need her instructions; it was like he was fine tuned to her already. Every time he snagged the barbell in her clit it jangled her nerves, sending her hips shaking madly against him, making her sob and ache and burn. Her toes scraped along the linoleum as she tried to keep control, but it was no use. Her hips slammed down on him, her good hand clutching his neck as her back arched and her chest was pressed into his. Rocked back like she was made the broad heat of his cock batter her g spot and everything tightened and narrowed and rushed like lightening.

"Yer gonna come, aren't ya," Connor growled. It wasn't a question; she was sure he could feel her strangling his cock. "Hmmm," he purred in approval. "Come on. Be a good lass and come on me cock."

She screamed and twisted her fingers into his hair.

"Ah, fuck, yes!," Connor howled. "Show me, lass, show me!"

She crashed down, pulling her knees up and squeezing his ribs as her hips jerked roughly. "Conn!" His name rang through the apartment, long, loud, hot.

* * *

There was a ringing in her ears and she felt boneless, sagging against him. With a whimper, she managed to raise her head enough to press it against the side of his neck. She felt him still rocking, the fingers between her thighs gentle and his other hand squeezing her ass gently in time with his motion.

"Give us a sec," he muttered in a strained voice. "I tink I lost all feelin' in me cock."

She managed a smile against his shoulder and unfurled her legs to balance on her toes. Wincing, she slid off of his length and stumbled back to the counter, her eyes glassy and focused on Connor's half-assed grin.

"I think I need another drink," Pam murmured as she shuffled past him on unsteady legs.

He caught her hand as she passed and pulled her back to him. "Lass, I can't feel me legs." He gave her another goofy grin.

She snorted. "Yeah, standing isn't easy right now."

"Ferget th'whiskey," he grunted. He gave her hand another pull and she collapsed onto his lap once more, yelping as his erection poked her in the side.

She laughed and held her hand to his forehead. "Ye feelin' all right, Conn? Ye just told me to forget the whiskey!"

"Hmm," Connor mused, pressing his lips to her shoulder. "I'm much more interested in you right now." He placed her hand around his cock and winked. "Give us a hand, lass?"

She smirked and fisted him lightly, slowly pumping her hand up and down his length. "Well, you _did_ help me out." She licked her lips.

"Aye," he agreed, hoarsely.

She felt his thighs quiver beneath her. "Can ye stand?"

"Do I have te?"

She nodded and pulled him up with her. "Don't worry, Conn. I'll do all the work. You just lay back an' let me take care of ye."

* * *

_TBC - one chapter of smut isn't nearly enough!_


	9. Chapter 9

He didn't know if she cared if he smoked in her apartment, but after the going-over she'd given him, he hoped she'd have mercy on him. Currently, Pam was in the shower, after the two of them had sprawled on her massive bed, basking in the afterglow and sweat of their marathon fuck-fest. He smiled at the term he'd come up with and lit a cigarette. His eyelids were drooping already, and the clock beside the bed said it was close to two am. He wondered if she had to work tomorrow. He tried to remember if he did. Idly scratching his chest, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of the water rushing in the bathroom.

"You're gonna set the place on fire."

Connor jumped with a small yelp, and sat up quickly, assessing the cigarette that had almost burned right to the filter. Pam stood next to the bed, towelling her hair, with another towel snugly wrapped around her torso.

"Sorry," Connor muttered, rolling from where he'd fallen asleep to stand on the other side of the bed.

"Pitch it in the toilet," Pam waved, turning to her closet and dropping the towel that was around her body.

The damp skin of her back distracted him, glistening in the low light of the bedroom, and he stared, watching as she moved and pulled on a pair of panties and then a barely there camisole.

"Feck!" he hissed as the cigarette finally burned down to his fingers.

Pam turned and grinned. "Murphy's gonna wonder what happened to you," she began, following him into the bathroom where he angrily tossed the offending butt into the toilet. Her fingertips traced his shoulders. "Scratches…" She touched his neck. "Bite marks…" She watched him inspect his wrists. "Rope burn. If this were an episode of CSI, Gil Grissom would have a field day."

He looked up at her in the mirror and cocked an eyebrow. "Aye." He then pointed to his hip. "But ye left yer callin' card."

"It's not a calling card if it's the first time I've used it. There's no pattern established yet."

"Yet?" Connor quipped. "Ye plan on doin' this again, do ya?"

"I hadn't found a worthy specimen. I settled for you." She flashed him a saucy grin.

Connor turned and leaned against counter, the cool marble tingling against his warm skin. "Maybe I settled for you."

Pam laughed out loud. "You call sending your brother into a tattoo parlour to track down a girl you'd met twice in as many days 'settling'? Connor MacManus, the Lord does not take kindly to liars."

"Aye, but I tink he'll forgive me on account dat you're in league with Lilith."

Pam gasped in mock horror and then whipped the wet towel out and snapped Connor's thigh. The yelp he let out made her smile. "Add welts to the list."

Connor growled playfully. "Yer an evil woman, Pamela Leary."

She shrugged and sashayed out of the bathroom. "That's not what you were screaming an hour ago."

* * *

"Hail Mary, you are feckin' _divine_, Pamela Leary!"

She glanced up the length of his body from where she was hovering over his pelvis (for the second time that night). She would have answered him but her mouth had been stuffed full of his cock for the last ten minutes, working him over like a melting popsicle in 100 degree heat. Her tongue had wrapped around him to the point his mind was a blur; she sucked hard, fast, expertly, and she knew just exactly when and how to use her hands. Connor couldn't believe his luck. Not only did Pamela Leary know _how_ to suck a cock, she _enjoyed_ doing it. Her lips nibbled the underside of the swollen head and she hummed there, licking the pre cum as it leaked out.

Above his head, his hands twitched in their bindings. Dead set to show him her talents, she had impressed him with the speed and accuracy in which she tied a handcuff knot – and one-handed, no less. She'd needed the other hand to grip his hair and hold him steady to her breasts, which swung into his face as she leaned over him. The rope she had used was something silky, and while it bit into the skin, it didn't burn, and it wasn't likely to budge, either. He gave it another hard pull to be sure. The wooden headboard heaved a painful creak.

" 'Ow long have ye had dis bed, lass?" Connor gasped as Pam gripped the base of his cock tightly between her thumb and forefinger.

"Hmm?" she hummed around him, causing his eyes to cross.

Connor heaved on the knots again and there was a sharp _crack_. Pam's head shot up, her lips coming off of him with a wet _pop_. She wiped her bottom lip with her thumb. "Shit, Connor, I can't afford…"

With a roar worthy of his warrior ancestors, Connor's biceps bulged; his triceps strained, and he broke clean through two slats of her wooden headboard. "I'll buy ye a new one," he growled, bucking and dislodging Pam in the process. Wood was tossed to one side. With his hands still bound, he lunged at her and managed to roll her to her front. As soon as she pushed up on her hands and knees, Connor saw his opportunity. He dove forward, grabbing one of her hands in both of his and dragging it behind her back. Holding it at the small of her back, he wedged a knee between hers and wiggled until his cock was lined up with the wettest, pinkest parts of her. Pressing his tongue between his teeth (he concentrated better that way), he pushed his hips forward and was rewarded with the tight, sucking feeling of Pam's pussy swallowing the first inches of him.

She hissed, and her ass wiggled delightfully. Balanced on one hand, she had enough leverage to push back against him every time he thrust into her. It wasn't enough. Sure, the fit was tight (ridiculously so) and the angle caused stuttering breaths to leave her, but she was twitching all over and could do nothing to relieve it.

"Conn," she growled, whimpering as his hands tightened around hers. "I could use a hand."

"Sorry, lass," he purred, thrusting his hips quick and light for a moment. They both paused their talking to moan at the sensations he was creating. "M'tied up at the moment. Yer gonna have te do it yerself." His hips crawled almost to a halt, barely rocking into her. "C'mon, lass. Make yerself come."

Her shoulder was burning due to the odd angle Connor was holding her at, but she refused to ask him to let her go. Shifting, she pressed her weight to her left shoulder and turned her head so that her face wouldn't be completely pressed into the mattress. This caused her ass to lift just as Connor shoved back into her and they both cried out and froze, shaking from the eye-crossing pleasure the new angle caused.

"Shit," Pam whispered.

"Feck," Connor muttered at the same time. He stroked in and out of her once. "M'not gonna last much longer," he huffed. Holding her one hand steady, the knot had left him just enough slack on the other hand to turn it (albeit at a strange angle) and press his thumb against the tighter of her two holes. He sank in a fraction of an inch and felt Pam's body shudder beneath him. "Ye got a handle on that pretty little clit o'yers?" he purred darkly.

She bit the inside of her cheek and squeezed her eyes shut as her fingertips found first the barbell and then the distended nub of her clit. She rubbed it between her first two fingers and wailed underneath him, thrashing with pleasure. The fact that he was breaching her anus just made her head turn to mush. Tears leaked out from behind her eyelids.

"I'll take dat as a yes," he said before snapping his hips back into her.

A sob tore from her throat on the first stroke. Hot and cold flashed down her thighs to her toes and curled there as she concentrated on nothing save for the stabbing pleasurable stretch of Connor's cock, the teasing burn of his thumb, and the itching tingle of her clit. Her breathing became frantic and later she'd blush from the looks she got from her neighbours, but right then, as Connor fucked her into the mattress, she howled, coming completely undone.

"Fuck, _YES_!" he cried. "Ah, Christ, lass, m'goin' te…" he hissed, sucking air into his lungs as he heaved behind her, and jammed into her rapidly. Faster, and then faster still, his hips snapped, and the sound of flesh against flesh was drowned out only by their collective moaning. He barrelled down the tracks to his finish, and came to a screaming halt. He froze, his hips snapping up into her, hers smashing back into his, and he cried out hoarsely, "_Sin ceart agat cailin beag salach!_" and came in a blazing torrent.

* * *

Connor wandered back into the bedroom and grinned at Pam as she stretched out on the bed. "What exactly _were_ you screaming at the end?"

The Irishman smirked and ruffled his hair before stretching his arms over his head. "Didn't yer parents speak Gaelic?"

"Oh, they did – and they still do, especially with Grandma. I never picked it up."

"Now, that's a shame," Connor remarked, wagging a finger. "Perfectly good language almost fadin' away like dat. I could teach ya," he offered, crawling up from the end of the bed and hovering over her.

Pam rolled her eyes. "I think we can find better things to do with our mouths."

He paused and contemplated this. "Aye," he drawled. "But, then you'll know what m'sayin' when I'm cummin' so 'ard I see Jesus."

She burst out laughing and Connor joined a few seconds later. When it subsided he sighed, and rolled to the empty space beside her.

"S'late," Connor remarked.

"Hmm. You can stay, you know. No need to pussy-foot around it."

"Wasn't," Connor insisted, though secretly he was relieved that he wouldn't have to find his way back to his and Murphy's place while his brain remained a gooey mess. "Can I use yer shower?"

"Towels are under the sink," she instructed around a yawn. "I work at eleven tomorrow."

"I'll be gone by six. Have the early shift," he mumbled. "Have ye seen me unders?"

"Kitchen," she reminded him.

"Right. I'll be back."

"I'll be asleep," she called out just as he neared the bedroom door.

He paused and then wandered back, smirking at the way Pam forced herself to stay awake long enough to peruse his naked form. Placing one hand on the pillow next to her head, he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. "Sweet dreams, then," he murmured.

"Raid the fridge if you like," she added softly, snuggling into the pillows. "Just make coffee before you leave."

He winked and stood straight, and wandered out into the apartment to find his boxers. On his way back he turned out the lights, and set the bottle of whiskey and their empty glasses next to her sink. By the time he got back to her bedroom, she was out cold, sprawled on her front and hugging her pillow tightly. He grinned, and was once again thankful that he hadn't decided to go back to his loft. She was way prettier to wake up to than Murph.

* * *

_So, what did Connor say at the end? You'll just have to stay tuned to find out. This is the end of Unlimited Blue, but don't worry, I've got plenty more in the chamber. Thanks again to all that stopped by, ready, reviewed, favorited, and subscribed!_


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